
Edwlf/G.Lrnvr^n:? 
Prof. Philip Lawr^. 













9»»»§&|f33F-^ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS^ 






UNITED STATES OF AMERICA? 



THE 

LAWRENCE RECITER: 

A 

SIMPLE YET COMPREHENSIVE SYSTEM 

OF 

ELOCUTION 

CONTAINING EXERCISES FOR THE DEVELOPING AND CULTIVA- 
TION OF THE VOICE, AND GRACE AND POWER OF GESTURE; 
RULES FOR BREATHING, ARTICULATION, MODULA- 
TION, ETC.; SELECTIONS FOR EXERCISES FOR 
VOICE, GESTURE AND DRAMATIC ACTION. 

DESIGNED FOR THE SPECIAL USE OF TEACHERS, STUDENTS, 
COLLEGES, SCHOOLS, AND ALL THOSE WHO WISH TO PER- 
FECT THEMSELVES IN THE NOBLE ART OF EXPRESSION. 

/>/ EDWIN GORDON LAWRENCE, 

fy (Son of Prof . Philip Lawrence,) 

TEACHER OF ELOCUTION AND DIRECTOR OF " THE LAWRENCE 
SCHOOL OF ACTING," OF NEW YORK. 

TO WHICH IS ADDED A COLLECTION OF OLD AND NEW GEMS 
BOTH IN POETRY AND PROSE, COMPILED BY THE LATE 

PROF. PHILIP 1 LAWRENCE, 

AND ALSO A NUMBER OF HIS'OWN PIECES WHICH HAVE 
NEVER BEFORE APPEARED IN PRINT. 

PHILADELPHIA: 
B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STKEET. 



H u 



Copyright, 1891, T. B. Peterson & Brothers. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Voice 23 

The Breath 25 

Positions of the Body 25 

Form of Breath 26 

Sounds 26 

Register 26 

Whispering Exercise 26 

Effusive, Expulsive, Explosive Articulation 27 

Modulation 23 

Stress 23 

Exercise in Modulation 23 

Gesture 35 

Positions of the Feet 36 

Positions of the Arms 36 

Postures and Motions of the Hand 37 

The Motions of the Arras and Hands 39 

The Head, the Eyes, the Shoulders, and the Body 41 

Complex Significant Gestures 43 

Dramatic Action 45 



Abou Ben Adhem Leigh Hunt, 65 

A Daughter's Song to her Father Philip Lawrence. '175 

Adventure of a Universalis " M 280 

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20 • CONTENTS. 

Page 

Adventure with a Lion . Philip Lawrence, 234 

A Father's Portrait of a Daughter " " 239 

After the Battle 275 

An Old Story told anew 110 

An Order for a Picture Alice Gray. 272 

Asleep at the Switch George Hoey. 159 

Antouy's Address to the Romans Shakespeare. 69 

Baby George Macdonald. 154 

Baby's Stocking 96 

" Bay Billy" Frank H.Gassaway. 119 

Battle of Fontenoy Thomas Davis. 101 

Beautiful Snow t J. W. Watson. 193 

Ben Hazzard's Guests , Anna P. Marshall. 149 

Bernardo del Carpio Mrs. Hermans. 127 

Betsy and I are out Will M. Carleton. 281 

Bugle Song Alfred Tennyson. 105 

Burdock's Goat 137 

Cassius against Csesar Shakespeare. 264 

Catiline's Defiance George Croly. 205 

Charge of the Light Brigade Alfred Tennyson. 99 

Columbia's Iron Hearts Philip Lawrence. 228 

Curfew must not ring To-night..... 190 

" Did you speak ? " 55 

Eloquence..... Philip Lawrence. 219 

Eugene Aram's Dream Thomas Hood. 84 

Fra Giacamo Robert Buchanan. 77 

Gone with a Handsomer Man Will M. Carleton. 107 

Gualberto's Victory E. C. Donnelly. 176 

Hans Breitmann's Party Chas. G.Leland. 200 

Horatius at the Bridge T. B. Macaulay. 72 

How he saved St. Michael's M. A. P. Stansbury. 134 

How Persimmons took cah ob de Baby Scribner y s Magazine. 260 

How " Ruby " Played George W.Bagby. 123 

Hurrah for the glorious Sea Philip Lawrence. 235 

Independence Bell— July 4, 1776 62 

Iron Hearts better than Iron Ships Philip Lawrence. 221 

Jane Conquest 143 

King Robert of Sicily H. W.Longfellow. 253 

Little Annie's Prayer and Dream Philip Lawrence. 237 

Little Jim 75 

Little Rocket's Christmas Vandyke Brown. 172 

Love is Happiness .Philip Lawrence. 229 



CONTENTS. 21 

Page 

Love waiting at the Door Philip Lawrence. 227 

Maclaine's Child Charles Maclcay. 265 

Nell Robert Buchanan. 161 

New Year's Eve 121 

Night Burial at Sea J. W. Watson. 223 

Papa's Letter 155 

Painting a Picture Philip Lawrence. 233 

"Rarnon" Bret Harte. 94 

Rum's Maniac T. W. Noti. 66 

Schneider's Ride Gus. Phillips. 213 

Schnitzerl's Philosopede Chas. G. Leland. 209 

Sheridan's Ride Thos. Buchanan Read. 157 

Socrates Snooks 114 

Softly Murmur Philip Lawrence. 230 

Spartacus to the Gladiators at Capua Elijah Kellogg. 97 

Strike for your Native Land Philip Lazvrence. 218 

Tom Constance Fennimore Woolson. 182 

Tommy and his Four Puppies Philip Lawrence. 231 

The Angels of Buena Vista J. G. Whittier. 81 

" Battle Schiller. 216 

11 Blacksmith's Story Frank Olive. 206 

" Bridge of Sighs , Thomas Hood. 140 

" Church of the World Lord Houghton. 54 

" Creeds of the Bells Geo. W.Bungay. 188 

" Curse of Regulus 112 

" Curtain Falls Tinsley's Magazine. 52 

11 Deacon's Story N. S.Emerson. 201 

" Death of the Old Squire 183 

" Engineer's Story 195 

" Fate of Virginia T.B. Macaiday. 60 

" Famine H. W. Longfellow. 246 

" Gambler's Wife Coates. 215 

" Ghost 151 

" Greenwood Shrift R.& C.Southey. 268 

" Ladies , Philip Lawrence. 237 

11 Little Hero 166 

" Mango Tree Chas. Kingsley. 59 

" Maniac , ...Matthew Gregory Lewis. 211 

" Old Soldier ' 104 

" Polish Boy Ann S. Stephens. 90 

" Pride of Battery B F. H. Gassawat/. 59 

" Queen of Love s Philip Lawrence. 237 



22 CONTENTS. 

Page 

v^C The Raven Edgar A. Poe. 241 

" Ride irorn Ghent to Aix Robert Browning. 105 

« Ride of Collins Graves J. B. O'Reilly. 258 

u The Snow Storm C. G. Eastman. 240 

■4* « Suicidal Cat 262 

* c Sweetest of Smiles ...Philip Lawrence. 236 

" Tiger and Serpent " " 226 

" Three Bells J. G. Whittier. 171 

" Vagabonds J. T. Trowbridge. 116 

" Violet's Queen Philip Lawrence. 225 

" Vision of the Monk Gabriel E. C. Donnelly. 197 

" Water Mill D. C. McCallum. 279 

il Widow's Cloak Samuel Ferguson. 49 

Vat You Please , W. B. Fowle. 230 

We meet upon the Level and part upon the Square 64 

Whistling in Heaven... 179 

You put no Flowers on my Father's Grave......... C. E. L. Holmes. 277 



PREFACE. 



THE VOICE. 

Speaking is an art and can only be acquired by laborious 
practice. To speak naturally is to use the organs of speech 
as nature intended, and not in the perverted manner which ill- 
usage has fastened upon us. The child breathes and speaks in 
a natural way ; most grown persons in an artificial one. For 
instance : watch the infant as it lies in the cradle slumbering ; 
notice with every rise and fall of the chest the outward and in- 
ward action of the diaphragm pumping the air in and forcing it 
outof the lungs. All the organs of breath are now performing 
their functions fully and none are worked at the expense of the 
others. How different with many men and women ! They, in- 
stead of inflating the lungs fully by the action of the abdominal 
muscles and diaphragm, rely upon the costal muscles only, and 
consequently inflate the upper portion of the lungs alone, thus 
being able to produce only a very limited amount of air, and 
scanty volume of voice. As I shall devote considerable space to 
breathing as an exercise, I will pass it by for the present. 

As speaking is an art, we must learn the principles of it and 
gain the faculty of practically applying them. We all possess 
talent, but alas ! very few are gifted with genius. Possessing 
this faculty (talent) we are all capable of learning to use the 
human voice so as to express every emotion of which it is ca- 
pable. Vocal sounds are but the paths leading outward from 
the speaker's soul, and if the powers of the voice are developed 
we are then enabled to express just what we feel. "To hold, 
as 'twere, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her own 
feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the 
time her form and pressure. ' ' 

In cultivating the voice we must pay particular attention to 
detail, both as to the mechanical and intellectual part of the 
work, for it is only by attending to little things that we can ex- 
pect to master the more difficult branches of the art. We must 
first furnish a good instrument ; but with most persons the voice 
is out of order and requires thorough overhauling. What is 

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24 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

the cause of this noble instrument requiring readjusting ? One 
little word will fully answer — misuse. And what will readjust 
this grand organ of sound? Practice. In other words, a? one 
of the greatest orators, when asked what was the essential quality 
of oratory, replied by saying "Action." Work, and hard work, 
then, is the only remedy we possess for this serious evil that 
besets us. We should experience no pain or trouble whatever 
when speaking, and every tone of the voice should be produced 
without apparent effort. Deep breathing requires an effort, but 
it must not be perceptible to the audience. A very vital point 
is to control the breath and not allow it to rush through the 
larynx without being converted into sound. This will be dwelt 
upon and explained among the exercises. 

The principal rules of Elocution are Articulation, Modulation, 
Emphasis, and Delivery, for from these four golden rules all 
others arise and on them depend. Articulation is the art of 
pronouncing every letter, syllable and word, clearly and dis- 
tinctly. Modulation is changing the pitch and inflection of the 
voice so as to properly bring out the speaker ' ; s meaning, and fully 
explaining by the tones of the voice the meaning of the words 
to which you give utterance. For instance : the upper register 
of the voice is suggestive of joy, excitement, light, etc.; the lower 
register, all that is sad, slow and solemn ; the medium, that 
which is ordinary. Emphasis is laying greater stress on a word 
and making it stand out boldly. # The longer we hold the word 
and the greater the volume of voice employed, the stronger will 
be the emphasis. 

Delivery is the most important of the four rules, for it com- 
bines them all. To possess a good delivery we must have thor- 
ough control of the voice, eye, muscles of the face, and move- 
ments of the body ; for delivery is not speech alone, it is 
expression. 

Jn cultivating the voice, we must first find out the medium 
register, and then work below and above it. How are we to do 
this? By taking the ordinary speaking voice as a guide and 
gradually working the voice as far above and below this tone as 
possible. In a very little while the student will discover that 
his medium register is changing. And why is this ? Because 
in most instances the student has habitually (not naturally) 
pitched his voice either too high or too low, and the exercises are 
now bringing the different registers to their proper position. ^ If 
he has been accustomed to speak in too low a tone this register 
has grown at the expense of the upper, and consequently the 
medium has been drawn down a considerable number of tones, 
but as he strengthens the upper register, the compass will be ex- 
tended and the medium will be raised correspondingly. If the 
upper has been constantly used this will prove to possess the 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 25 



strongest tones, and the lower register must suffer from the extra 
practice which the upper has received. Many teachers claim 
that such and such a tone on the scale represents the medium 
register. Now, I am bold to say that such is not the case, for 
what would be the medium for my voice might be above the 
medium for yours, and possibly below for another person's. 
Therefore, the teacher should find the key-note in the student's 
voice and commence his work from that, and not endeavor to 
force his own voice upon the student. 

There is a great quantity of dead wood clinging to Elocution, 
but in this simple system I shall endeavor to chop it all away, 
and make every one of my assertions perfectly clear to the stu- 
dent. In many cases the seeker after elocutionary knowledge is 
only mystified and led astray by the amount of matter which is 
heaped up before him in most of the so-called systems. In fact, 
Elocution is an art, and can be imparted by the living teacher 
alone. It cannot be learned from books. They will serve as 
assistants and guides, but to rely on them alone would be mad- 
ness. 

Elocution consists of both vocal and physical gymnastics. 

BREATH. 

POSITION OF THE BODY. 

First, place the body in an erect, easy position ; heels close 
together ; weight of the body placed equally on both feet ; arms 
hanging down at rest ; chest held up and open ; head erect, but 
not thrown back ; perfectly vertical. The student must take 
pains to prevent the shoulders from rising and falling with the 
inhaling and exhaling of the breath ; they must be held sta- 
tionary. 

There are three forms of breathing, viz., Effusive, Expulsive 
and Explosive. 

The Effusive form is merely breathing the sound into the air. 
Take the sound ah; draw a full breath into the lungs through 
the nostrils, at the same time expanding the chest fully and 
throwing out the diaphragm ; now open the mouth, draw in the 
diaphragm slowly, and effuse the breath into the air. The 
movement of the diaphragm must be continued as long as the 
sound, and the pressure of the abdominal muscles and diaphragm 
should be inward and upward. These waist muscles must be 
made to act just like a pair of bellows, pumping the air in and 
forcing the breath out of the lungs. 

Expulsive breathing is pushing the sound into the air, just as 
though it was meeting with opposition and you were compelled 
to force the breath out of the lungs. Use the same sound ah, 



26 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

but stronger and quicker action of the diaphragm than when 
effusing the breath. 

Explosive, the third form of breathing, is shooting the breath 
out by a sudden action of the diaphragm, just as though a blow 
were aimed at the pit of the stomach ; the action is very quick 
and the breath is exploded from the lungs and the sound from 
the larynx. This form of breathing resembles an aspirated cough. 
The same sound ah should be used in producing the three forms 
of breathing, and the air must be inhaled through the nostrils 
and the breath exhaled through the mouth. 

VOICE. 

^ Voice is articulated sound. There are three registers or di- 
visions to the voice : the upper, medium and lower. With the 
following exercise first take the medium register, effusive form 
of breathing, on all the vowel sounds ; then the expulsive, fol- 
lowed by the explosive. After getting these tones to your satis- 
faction, pitch the voice as low as possible and repeat the exercise. 
As soon as this has been accomplished, raise the voice to its 
highest pitch and go over the same exercise. Continue this 
until a tired feeling commences to show itself or a dizzy sensation 
is apparent. 



Form of breath. Sounds. Register. 

Effusive 1 f Upper 

Expulsive \ A E I U \ Medium 

Explosive j ( Lower 



WHISPERING EXERCISE. 

Effusive. 

All heaven and earth are still, — though not in sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 

Expulsive. 

Angels and ministers of grace defend us I 
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned, 
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, 
Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, 
Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, 
That I will speak to thee : 

Explosive. 
Hark ! I hear the bugles of the enemy ! They are on their 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 27 

march along the bank of the river. We must retreat instantly, 
or be cut off from our boats. I see the head of their column 
already rising over the height. Our only safety is in the screen 
of this hedge. Keep close to it ; be silent ; and stoop as you run. 
For the boats ! Forward ! 

There are twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, and the 
vowels, or such letters that can be uttered alone, are as follows : 

A (a as a letter, a as a word). Before words beginning with 
a vowel sound, it takes the letter n after it. This letter has six 
sounds, as in ale, arm, all, an, glass, care. 

E, e long as in mete, short e as in met 

I, I long as in fine, short % as in fin. 

O has various sounds, as in note, not, nor, move, done. 

U, as in tube, up, full, 

W, in diphthongs, is used as a vowel for u; as view, strew. 

Y, except at the beginning of English words and syllables, is a 
vowel, and has the sound of i. 

Practice the following table of words on three registers, and 
in the three forms of breathing : 



Ale 
Arm 
All 
An 



Eve file Old Tube 

Mete I Fine Lose Up 

End fin On Full 

Met J Fin 



ARTICULATION. 



In speaking we should utter the words so that every letter and 
syllable may be clearly heard. This will require considerable 
practice, and students will do well by attending particularly to 
this, the first rule of Elocution. 

The first vowel, a, is often indistinctly heard, and is frequently 
mispronounced. Sometimes it is too broad, and again too thin. 
For instance, in such words as mass, glass and pass, it is mis- 
pronounced mass, glass, pass ; and again, mass, glass, pass. 
The vowel o is at times drawn out until it sounds like aw. 
Gone being pronounced as though spelt gawne, dog as though 
written dawg. This is a grievous fault, and should be at once cor- 
rected. The letter u is ofttimes mispronounced oo, especially 
in such words as duke, which is generally uttered as though 
spelt dook. The termination sume, as consume and presume^ is 
rarely properly pronounced, being spoken as snmu. Pew and 
due should be pronounced du, and not doo, as is often the ease. 

Avoid doubling the consonants as d in ana. Do not utter it as 
chough there were two ds, thus, and-d. The letter d when coming 
at the end of a word is sometimes never heard, as in husband, a 



28 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

large number of persons pronouncing the word as if written 
husban. Gr is another letter often slighted, in such words as 
ringing, singing, etc. 

The terminations ance and ence are often confounded, and 
uttered like unce, and ace like iss as in the word furnace. The 
letter h is a great sufferer, especially when the first letter of a 
word, or when coming after w, as in when, where, etc. I might 
keep on citing instances of mispronunciation and poor articu- 
lation, but I think the above will suffice. 

MODULATION. 

IIow fascinating it is to listen to a well modulated voice ! To 
have every word fully explained to us by the tones which the 
speaker utters. Yes, j t ou reply, but can this be done ? Most 
assuredly. Practice faithfully on the three registers and three 
forms of breathing, and you will be surprised in a very little 
time at the amount of melody which your voice will gain. 

STRESS. 

Radical Stress, t> 
Vanishing lt <J 

Median " <> 

Compound " X 

Thorough " 1=1 

Tremor " ~~- 

Exercise all the vowel sounds on the different forms of stress, 
and then the following : 

Attend All > 

I said All, not one or two ; <J # 

Join All ye creatures in his praise. <C> 

What ! All f did they All fail ? X 

Come one, come All. □ 

Oh ! I have lost you All. **~* 

Produce the stress on the vowel a in all. 

Exercise in Modulation. 

Take Tennyson's beautiful little poem of "The Bugle Song," 
and read it as follows : 
The splendor (medium register) falls on castle walls (lower 

register) 
And snowy summits (medinm register) old in story (lower 

register), 
The long (hold long) light shakes (tremor stress) across the lakes, 
And the wild (full and round) cataract leaps (explosive) in glory. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 29 

Blow v {falling inflection), bu' (rising) g\e^,( falling) blow 7 (rising) ; 
Set the wild echoes flying (very light on word flying to represent 
the echo, and four strokes on the word, in this manner, fly" / i y 'ng). 

In the second stanza, read the lines : 

Blow (<C> median stress), let us hear the purple glens 

replying (O echo) : 
Blow (<C> median stress), bu (<C>) gle (<0 > ) ', answer 
echoes dying (O), dying «>), dyin.ir «>), {gradu- 
ally decreasing volume on the repetition of the word dying until 
the last is very soft and appears to come from a great distance). 
The bugle sounds may be practiced on the three registers, but, 
when delivered in public, sound best on the upper. 

Exercises in Pitch and Form of Breathing. 

Medium Register. — Effusive. 
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said. 
This is my own, my native land ? 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

We sat by the river, you and I, 

In the sweet Summer time, long ago ; 

So smoothly the water glided by, 
Making music in its tranquil flow. 

Medium Register . — Expulsive. 

Is it come to this ? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, 
who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman 
province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire 
and red-hot plates of iron, and at last put to the infamous death 
of the cross, a Roman citizen ? 

I will love thee with a love that never falters, 

With a steadfast love that knows not rest or peace, 

And the incense I will burn upon thine altars 
Will be pure and sweet as memories of Greece. 

Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief who, for twelve 
long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast 
the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet 
lowered his arm. 



30 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Medium Register. — Explosive. 

u Forward the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns ! " he said. 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ; 
Or close the wall up with our English dead ! 

Lower Register. — Effusive. 
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! 

Now o'er the one-half world Nature seems dead, — 

For I love thee like the day, when sunshine-sated 
It sinks lingering in the twilight of its swoon, 

And I love thee with sweet fervor unabated, 

As some calm lake loves the glimmer of the moon. 

But thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, — substantial black,-— 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! 

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness. 

Lower Register. — Expulsive. 

Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand 

and heart to this vote ! It is my living sentiment, 

and by the blessing of God, it shall be my dying sentiment : — 
independence now and independence forever. 

Oh my sweet one, oh thou splendor of my yearning, 
Oh thou beauty that my nullity has won ; 

To thy love my spirit ever will be turning, 
Like the heliotrope's pale petals to the sun. 

And all the clouds that lower' d upon our house, 
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. 

With woeful measure, wan Despair, 
Low, sullen sounds her grief beguiled. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 31 

Lower Register. — Explosive. 

Now, fire ! comrades ! fire ! up and at them ! Fight, men, 
fight for your wives and your children and your homes. 

Upper Register. — Effusive. 

Oh ! say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, 

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming ; 
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air. 

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; 
Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 

0' er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

Upper Register. — Expulsive. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying clouds, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night — 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Upper Register. — Explosive. 

Awake ! awake ! 
Ring the alarm bell : — Murder and treason ! — 
Banquo, and Donalbain ! Malcolm ! awake ! 

Strike till the last armed foe expires ! 
Strike for your altars and your fires ! 
Strike for the green graves of your sires, 
God and your native land ! 

Sublimity. 
The Ocean. — Byron. 
(Deep, full tones, and effusive and expulsive utterance.) 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and subliinc — 

The image of eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 



32 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

Mont Blanc. — Coleridge. 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Fanciful and Humorous Style. 
Mercutios Queen Mob Speech. — Shakespeare. 

N. B. — This exercise must be practiced so as to produce that 

?layful, laughing style, so necessary to its successful rendition, 
'he selection is full of fancy and humor. Laughter must be 
frequently introduced. Especially at the first, before the word 
" Oh ! " also after " kisses " and at the conclusion. 

Oh ! then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. 

She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes 

In shape no bigger than an agate stone 

On the forefinger of an alderman, 

Drawn by a team of little atomies 

Athwart men's noses, as they lie asleep ; 

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs, 

The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 

The traces, of the smallest spider's web, 

The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams ; 

Her whip of cricket's bone ; the lash of film, 

Her waggoner, a small gray-coated gnat, 

Not half so big as a round little worm 

Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid ; 

Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 

Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, 

Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers, 

And in this state she gallops, night by night, 

Tli rough lovers' brains, and then they dream of love, 

O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees, 

O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream ; 

Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's npse, 

And then dreams lie of smelling out a suit ; 

And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail 

Tickling a parson's nose, as 'a lies asleep, 

Then 'dream's lie of another benefice : 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 33 

Sometimes she driveth o'er a, soldier's neck, 
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 
Of healths five fathoms deep : and then anon 
Drums in his ear ; at which he starts and wakes ; 
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, 
And sleeps again. 

En tliusiastic Imagination. 

Melnotte's Description of the Lake of Como. — EDWARD BuLWER 

Lytton. 
Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint 
The home to which, could Love fulfil its prayers, 
This hand would lead thee, listen ! A deep vale 
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world, 
Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold 
And whispering myrtles ; glassing softest skies 
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, 
As I would have thy fate ! 

A palace lifting to eternal summer 

Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower 

Of coolest foliage musical with birds 

Whose song should Syllable thy name ! At noon 

We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder 

Why earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens 

Still left us youth and love ! We'd have no friends 

That were not lovers ; no ambition save 

To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books 

That were not tales of love — that we might smile 

To think how poorly eloquence of words 

Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! 

And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens 

We'd guess what star should be our home when love 

Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light 

Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, 

And every air was heavy with the sighs 

Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, 

And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth 

In the midst of roses ! — Dost thou like the picture ? 

Tranquillity. 

(Medium and Lower Register ; Effusive and Expulsive utterance. ) 

Thanatopsis. — William Cullen Bryant. 

To him who in the Love of Nature holds 
2 



34 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart- 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course, nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth to be resolved to earth again, 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix for ever with the elements — 
To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good — 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between, 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green, and poured rouna all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death 
Through the still la-pse of ages. All that tread 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. £5 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 

Of morning ; pierce the Barcan wilderness, 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 

Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there ; 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw 

In silence from the living, and no friend 

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 

In the full strength of years — matron and maid, 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

Solive, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To the pale realms of shade where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

GESTURE. 

When not gesticulating, the body should* be held in an erect, 
easy position, weight mainly on the retired foot ; arms hanging 
down at rest, head vertical, and eyes directed horizontal. 

POSITION OF THE FEET. 
First Position, Right Foot 

In this position the weight of the body should rest mainly on 
the left foot, right slightly in advance, and resting lightly, but in 
its whole length upon the floor ; the space of the width of your 



36 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

own foot should separate the feet, the heels should be on a line, 
and the feet at an angle of about seventy-five degrees. 

Second Position, Right Foot 

Slide the right foot forward a distance of about its length ; 
transfer the weight of the body to the right foot ; raise the left 
heel from the ground, turning it slightly inward, allowing only 
the ball of the left great toe to rest upon the ground to prevent 
the body from tottering. 

First and Second Positions of the Left Foot. 

The positions are similar in every respect to those of the right, 
except that the left foot is in advance and performs the princi- 
pal movement. 

Third or Retired Position of the Right Foot 

The right foot being retired, bend that knee, throw the whole 
weight of the body upon that foot, retiring the body as much as 
possible ; at the same time brace the left knee which is advanced. 

Third or Refilled Position of the Left Foot 
This position is analogous to the retired position of the right. 

^ These six positions of the feet constitute all that are necessary 
either on the stage or platform. 

POSITION OF THE ARMS. 

There are twelve primary movements of the arms, and from a 
combination of these all the gestures of the arms are made. 
They are as follows : 

Downwards forwards. 
" oblique. 

• u extended, 

11 backwards. 

Horizontal forwards, 
oblique. 
" extended, 

backwards. 

Elevated forwards. 
" oblique. 

44 extended, 

backwards. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 37 

The downward movements must be made within forty-five 
degrees of the nadir, or point directly beneath the feet. The 
horizontal forty-five degrees above the downward, or on a line with 
the horizon. The elevated forty-five degrees above the horizontal. 
The movements of the arms must not be angular, but should 
possess those graceful curves which the artist Hogarth so aptly 
styles "the curves of beauty." Care must also be taken in 
keeping perfect time with voice and gesture, the stroke of both 
coming on the same syllable. 

POSTURES AND MOTIONS OF THE HAND. 

# The postures of the hand are determined by four different 
circumstances : 

L By the disposition of the fingers. 

2. By the manner of presenting the palm. 

3. By the combined disposition of both hands. 

4. By the part of the body on which they are occasionally 
placed. 

First Class of the Postures of the Hands, depending on the dis- 
position of the Fingers. 

The Natural State. The hand, when unconstrained, in ita 
natural and relaxed state, either hanging down at rest, or raised 
moderately up, has all the fingers a little bent inwards towards 
the palm ; the middle and third finger lightly touch ; the fore- 
finger is separated from the middle finger, and less bent, and the 
little finger separated from the third, and more bent. The ex- 
tremity of the thumb bends a little outwards ; and in its general 
length and disposition, is* nearly parallel with the fore-finger. 
When the arm is raised horizontal, the hand is held obliquely 
between the postures inward and supine. Cresollius recommends 
the public speaker to adopt this posture of the baud, and for 
this preference Jie adduces the authority of Hipprocates and 
Galen. But it is not necessary that a speaker should confine 
himself to any one posture of the hand ; variety may often de- 
mand the contrary ; if, however, he should prefer using only 
one. this posture merits the preference. 

Clinched. The fingers in this disposition, are firmly closed, 
and press their extremities upon the palm ; the thumb aids the 
pressure, and is lapped, particularly, over the middle finger. 

Extended. ^ The fingers, in this state, whatever may be the 
general position of the hand, are separated from each other with 
energy in proportion to the excitation of the speaker. 

Index. Pointing with the fore-finger, the. other fingers turned 
nwards, and contracted with more or less force, according to the 



38 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

energy of the speaker. This gesture is used in reproach and in- 
dication, from the last of which it has its name, index. 

Holding. The finger and thumb are pressed together, either 
the fore or middle finger, or both ; the other fingers are con- 
tracted, more or less, according to the degree of energy required 
by the sentiment. 

Hollow. When the palm is held nearly supine, and the fin- 
gers turn inwards, without touching. 

Grasping. The fingers and thumb seizing the garments, or 
the hair. 

Second Class of the Postures of the Hands, depending on the 
manner of presenting the Palm. 

Prone. The hand is prone when the palm is turned down- 
wards. 

Supine. The hand is said to be supine, when the palm is 
turned upwards. 

Inwards. When the palm is turned towards the breast and 
the hand is held on the edge. 

Outwards. When the palm is turned from the body, and 
towards the object, the thumb downwards, the hand held on the 
edge. 

Vertical. When the palm is perpendicular to the horizon, 
the fingers pointing upwards. 

Forwards. When the palm is presented forwards, the arm 
hanging down, or placed in one of the extended, or backward 
positions. 

Backwards. When the palm is turned backwards, the arm 
hanging down, or placed in one of the extended, or backward 
positions. 

Third Class of the Postures of the Hands, arising from the 
combined disposition of Both Hands. 

Of this class a few only are noticed, and those are liny 
which are most in use among public speakers ; others may be 
supplied as occasion may require. 

Applied, When the palms are pressed together, and the fin- 
gers and thumbs of each are mutually laid against each other. 

Clasped, When all the fingers are inserted between each 
other, and the hands pressed closely together. 

Folded. When the fingers of the right hand, at the second 
joint, are laid between the thumb and fore-finger of the left, the 
right thumb crossing the left. 

Crossed, When the left hand is placed on the breast, and the 
right on the left, or the contrary. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 39 

Inclosed. When the kauckles at the middle joint of one hand, 
moderately bent, are received within the palm of the other, the 
fingers of which stretch along the back of the inclosed hand 
nearly to the wrist, the thumbs crossing, or rather, laid at length 
over each other. 

Touching. When the points of the fingers of each hand are 
brought lightly into contact. 

Wringing. When both hands are first clasped together, and 
elevated, then depressed, and separated at the wrists, without 
disengaging the fingers. 

Enumerating. When the index finger of the right hand is 
laid successively upon the index, or the different fingers of the 
left. If the number of divisions be more than four, the enu- 
meration should begin from the thumb. Sometimes the finger 
and thumb of the right hand hold the finger of the left, which 
represents the division. 

Fourth Class of the Postures of the Hands, arising from the Part 
of the Body on tvhich they are occasionally placed. 

The fourth class of the postures of the hands arises from the 
part of the body on which they are occasionally placed. The 
parts of the body and head most remarkable in this respect are 
the breast, the eyes, the lips, the forehead, the chin. 

The Motions of the Arms and Hands, 

In ascertaining the import of any posture of either arm, or 
hand, it is important to consider the posture in connection with 
the action by which it is produced ; for any posture of the arm, 
or hand, may sustain different significant characters, because 
different actions give the same posture an entirely different im- 
port. This must be obvious to all who reflect that the effect of 
the posture greatly depends upon the exact character of the 
motion, which is produced partly by the direction which the 
motion takes, partly by the force with which it is commenced, 
and partly by the distance through which it passes. 

The motions of the hands and arms together are, therefore, 
considered ; first, as to their direction ; and secondly, as to their 
manner of moving. The energy is not here taken into account. 

As to the manner of motion, gesture may be considered, as 

Noting. When the hand is first drawn back and raised, and 
then advanced, and, with a gentle stroke, depressed. 

Projecting, or pushing. When the arm is first retracted, 
and then thrust forward in the direction in which the hand 
points. 

Waving. When the fingers are first pointed downwards, and 



40 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



then, by a smart motion of the elbow and wrist, the hand is 
flung upward in a vertical direction. 

The flourish. A circular movement above the head. 

The sweep, A curved movement, descending from the op- 
posite shoulder, and rising with velocity to the utmost extent of 
the nini. or the reverse ; changing the position of the hand from 
feupine to vertical, in the first case, and from vertical to supine, 
in the latter. The sweep is sometimes doubled, by returning 
the arm through the same arch. 

Beckoning. When with the fore-finger, or the whole hand, 
the palm being turned inwards, a motion is made in the direction 
of the breast. 

Repressing, The reverse of the preceding gesture, when the 
forefinger, or the whole hand, the palm turned outwards, makes 
a motion in opposition to the person addressed. The motions, 
in these last two gestures, are often repeated. 

Striking. When the whole fore-arm. and the hand along with 
it, descend from a higher elevation rapidly, and with a degree of 
force like a stroke which is arrested, when it has struck what it 
was aimed against. 

Recoiling. When after a stroke, as in the former gesture, 
the arm and hand return to the position whence they proceeded. 

Advancing, When the hand being first moved downwards 
and backwards, in order to obtain greater space for action, is then 
moved regularly forwards, and raised as high as the horizontal 
position, a step being, at the same time, made in advance, to aid 
the action. 

Springing. When the hand, having nearly arrived at the in- 
tended limit of gesture, flies suddenly up to it by a quick motion 
of the wrist, like the blade of a pocket-knife, when it suddenly 
and decidedly snaps into its proper situation by the recoil of the 
spring. 

Throwing, When the arm, by the force of the gesture, is 
thrown, as it were, in the direction of the person addressed. 

Clinching, When the hand is^ suddenly clinched, and the 
arm raised in a posture of threatening. 

Collecting. When the arm, from an extended posture, sweeps 
inwards. 

Shaking. When a tremulous motion is made by the arm and 
hand. 

Retracting, When the arm is withdrawn, preparatory to 
projecting, or pushing. 

Rejecting. Is the action of pushing the hand vertically, to- 
wards the object, and, at the same time, averting the head. 

Bending. Is the gesture preparatory to striking. 

The gestures here given will suffice as a specimen of some o^ 
the most uselul in this class. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 41 



THE HEAD, THE EYES, THE SHOULDERS, AND THE BODY. 

As the head gives the chief grace to the person, so does it 
principal!} 7 contribute to the expression of grace in delivery. 

The head should be held in an erect and natural posture ; for, 
when hung down, it expresses humility, or diffidence ; when 
thrown back, arrogance ; and when inclined to one side, languor 
or indifference. The movements of the head should be suited 
to the character of the delivery. They should accord with the 
gesture, and fall in with the action of the hands, and the mo- 
tions of the body. 

The head is capable of many appropriate expressions. "Be- 
sides those nods which signify assent, or approbation and rejec- 
tion, there are motions of the head, known, and common to all, 
which express modesty, doubt, admiration and indignation. But 
to use gesture of the head alone, unaccompanied by any other 
gesture, is considered faulty. It is also a fault to shake or nod 
the head frequently, to toss it violently, or to agitate the hair, 
by rolling it about. 

The most usual motions and postures of the head are as 
follows : 



Postures and Motions of the 
Head. 

Inclined. 

Erect. 

Assenting. 

Denying. 

Shaking. 

Tossing. 

Aside. 



Direction of the Eyes. 



Forwards. 

Averted. 

Downwards. 

Upwards. 

Around. 

Vacancy. 



The motions of the trunk contribute much to the effect in 
delivery. The gestures of the arms and hands, therefore, should 
always be supported by the accompaniment, of the body. Not 
by affected and ridiculous contortions, but by the manly and free 
exertions of the muscles of the body, the general consent of 
which is indispensable to the production of graceful motion. 

SIGNIFICANT GESTURES. 

The most important of the significant gestures are the fol- 
lowing : 

The Head and Face. 

The hanging down of the head denotes shame, or grief. 
The holding of it up, pride or courage. 



42 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



To nod forwards implies assent. 

To toss the head back, dissent. 

The inclination of the head implies diffidence or languor. 

The head is averted, in dislike or horror. 

It leans forward, in attention. 

The Eyes. 

The eyes are raised, in prayer. 

They weep, in sorrow. 

They burn, in anger. 

They are downcast or averted, in shame or grief. 

They are cast on vacancy, in thought. 

They are cast in various directions, in doubt and anxiety. 

Tlte Arms. 

The placing of the hand on the head, indicates pain or distress. 
On the eyes, shame or sorrow. 
On the lips, an injunction of silence. 
On the breast, an appeal to conscience. 
The hand is waved, or flourished, in joy or contempt. 
Both hands are held supine, or they are applied or clasped, in 
prayer. 

Both are held prone, in blessing. 

They are clasped, or wrung, in affliction. 

They are held forward, and received, in friendship. 

The Body. 

The body, held erect, indicates steadiness and courage. 

Thrown back, pride. 

Stooping forward, condescension or compassion. 

Bending, reverence or respect. 

Prostration, the utmost humility or abasement 

The Lower Limbs. 

The firm position of the lower limbs signifies courage, or 
obstinacy. 

Bended knees indicate timidity ; or weakness. 

The lower limbs advance, in desire or courage. 

They retire, in aversion or fear. 

Start, in terror. 

Stamp, in authority or anger. 

Kneel, in submission and prayer. 

These are a few of the simple gestures which may be termed 
significant. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 43 



COMPLEX SIGNIFICANT GESTURES. 

Complex Significant Gestures are employed chiefly in dra- 
matic representation. They are combinations of simple signifi- 
cant gestures, variously associated according to the mingled 
passions which they represent. The boldest and most magnifi- 
cent of them are termed attitudes. The following are examples 
of complex significant gestures : 

Reproach puts on a stern aspect ; the brow is contracted, the 
lip is turned up with scorn, and the whole body is expressive of 
aversion. 

Apprehension is the prospect of future evil accompanied with 
uneasiness of mind. 

Terror excites the person who suffers under it, to avoid the 
dreaded object, or to escape from it. If it be some dangerous 
reptile on the ground, and very near, the expression is repre- 
sented by starting back and looking downwards. If the danger 
threaten from a distance, the terror arising is expressed by look- 
ing forwards, and not starting back, but merely in the retired 
position. But if the dread of impending death from the hand 
of an enemy awaken his passion, the coward flies. 

Horror, which is aversion or astonishment mingled with terror, 
is seldom capable of retreating, but remains in one attitude, with 
the eyes riveted on the object, the arms, with the hands vertical, 
held forward to guard the person, and the whole frame trembling. 

Listening, in order to obtain the surest and most various in- 
formation, first casts the eye quickly in the apparent direction 
of the sounds ; if nothing is seen the ear is turned towards the 
point of expectation, the eye is bent on vacancy, and the arm is 
extended, with the hand vertical ; but all this passes in a mo- 
ment. If the sounds proceed from different points at the same 
time, both hands are held up, and the face and eyes alternately 
change from one side to the other with a rapidity governed by 
the nature of the sound ; if it be alarming, with trepidation ; if 
pleasing, with gentle motion. 

Admiration, if of surrounding natural objects, of a pleasing 
kind, holds both hands vertical, and across, and then moves them 
outwards. In admiration arising from some extraordinary or 
unexpected circumstances, the hands are thrown up supine 
elevated, together with the face and the eyes, 

Veneration crosses both hands on the breast, casts down the 
eyes slowly, and bows the head. 

Deprecation advances in the extended position of the feet, 
approaching to kneeling, clasps the hands forcibly together, 
throws back the head, sinking it between the shoulders, and 
looks earnestly up to the person implored. 

lu appealing to heaven, the right hand is laid on the breast, 



44 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

then the left is projected supine upwards; the eyes are first 
directed forwards, and then upwards. 

In the appeal to conscience, the right hand is laid on the 
breast, the left drops unmoved, the eyes are fixed upon the 
person addressed ; sometimes both hands press the breast. 

Shame in the extreme sinks on the knee, and covers the eyes 
with both hands. This is a feminine expression of it. 

Mild resignation falls on the knee, crosses the arms on the 
breast, and looks forwards and upwards towards heaven. 

Resignation mixed with desperation, stands erect and unmoved, 
the head thrown back, the eyes turned upward, and fixed, the 
arms crossed. 

Grief arising from sudden and afflicting intelligence, covers 
the eyes with one hand, advances forwards, and throws back the 
other hand. 

Attention demanding silence, holds the finger on the lips, and 
leans forwards, sometimes repressing with the left hand. 

Distress, when extreme, lays the palm of the hand upon the 
•forehead, throws back the head and body, and retires with a 
long and sudden step. 

Deliberation on ordinary subjects, holds the chin and sets the 
arm a-kimbo. 

Self sufficiency folds the arms, and sets himself on his centre. 
This was a favorite posture of Bonaparte. 

Pride throws back the body, and holds the head high. 

These few complex significant gestures are some of the most 
obvious, and principally such as occurred in the illustration of 
other parts of this system ; they serve, however, in some degree, 
to explain the nature of these gestures. 

Surprise causes the body and lower limbs to retire, and af- 
fection stimulates the person to advance. 

When the thoughts flow without difficulty or opposition, the 
movement of the limbs is free and direct. But when difficul- 
ties occur, or obstacles are discovered, a man either arrests his 
action entirely, or changes it to something altogether different. 
The direction of his eyes, and the action of his head, are also, 
under similar circumstances, quite altered. The eyes, instead 
of moving freely from object to object, become fixed, and the 
head is thrown back, if before hanging down on the breast. 

Melancholy is a feeble and passive affection ; it is attended 
by a total relaxation of the muscles, with a mute and tranquil 
resignation, unaccompanied by opposition either to the cause 
or the sensibility of the evil. The character, externally, is 
languor, without motion, the head hanging at the "side next 
the heart," theeyes turned upon its object, or, if that is absent, 
fixed upon the ground, the hands hanging down by their own 
weight, without effort, and joined loosely together. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 45 

Anxiety is of a different character ; it is restless and active, 
and manifest by the extension of the muscles ; the eye is filled 
with fire, the breathing is quick, the motion is hurried, the head 
is thrown back, the whole body is extended. The sufferer is like 
a sick man who tosses incessantly, and finds himself uneasy in 
every situation. 

The significant gestures, however numerous and correct, 
which a great actor makes in the representation of an entire 
dramatic character, bear no proportion to the number of those 
gestures which do not belong to this class, which are no less 
necessary, though they are not so splendid and imposing. The 
painter is struck by the boldest and finest of the significant 
gestures, which are called attitudes ; and he records them ; 
they are the proper objects of his art ; they are striking, and 
less evanescent than the other gestures which pass unnoticed by 
him, although the} 7 make up by far the greater and more impor- 
tant part of the gestures requisite for illustrating the sentiments. 
These less prominent gestures give to the declamation its precision 
and force. A slight movement of the head, a look of the eye, a 
turn of the hand, a judicious pause, or interruption of gesture, or a 
change of position in the feet, often illuminates the meaning of 
a passage, and sends it, full of life and warmth, into the under- 
standing. And the perfection of gesture, in a tragedian, will 
be found to consist more in the skilful management of the less 
6howy action, than in the exhibition of the finest attitudes. 
Attitudes are dangerous to hazard ; the whole powers of the 
man must be wrought up to their highest energy, or they be- 
come forced and frigid. Excellent players have been seen, who 
have never ventured an attitude ; but none, deserving the name 
of excellence, have ever appeared, whose declamation has been 
deficient in precision or propriety. Where all the solid founda- 
tion of just and appropriate action has been laid, attitude, when 
regulated with taste and discretion, may be added to ornament 
the superstructure; but, when it is introduced unseasonably, or 
is overcharged, it is an evidence of deficiency of understanding, 
as well as of depravity of taste. 

DRAMATIC ACTION. 

Humanity is expressly designed for action, both mental and 
physical, and is so constructed that to develop and continue the 
natural powers a certain amount of exercise is absolutely neces- 
sary. Every muscle in the body should be thoroughly trained 
and brought; into subjugation to the will, so as to enable the 
speaker to perform any and every motion with as uiurh ease as 
he produces the different tones of the voice. 

Gesticulation is visible speech, and by proper manipulation 



46 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

may be made just as effective as voice itself. This being the 
case, imagine the power of an orator "who thoroughly masters 
both branches^ of Elocution ! He would be enabled to sway an 
audience at will, compelling them to respond to his every ex- 
pression. It is a well-known fact that impressions received 
through the eye are far more lasting than those made through 
the medium of any of the other senses, so consequently the 
speaker who can by appropriate gesticulation make his oration 
plain through the sight, will stamp his discourse upon the 
minds of his hearers and leave an impression not easily erased. 

I have read in the works of some, who are considered masters 
of their art, where Students are advised to pay no attention 
whatever to the study of gesture. How then can these same 
teachers counsel vocal training? It seems to me one is just as 
important to the orator or actor as the other. What do they 
advise the Speaker to do? Rely upon the inspiration of the mo- 
ment. How ridiculous this must sound to one who has had prac- 
tical experience as a public speaker. On the platform or stage I 
assert that nothing should be left to chance. Suppose you 
should rely upon inspiration, and it should fail to make its ap- 
pearance. What would be the result? The utter failure of 
your oration. Imagine yourself before a cold, unsym pathetic 
audience. Where is the inspiration to come from ? You must 
call upon that other self, Art ; dive down into the recesses of 
your soul and make your audience respond to the passions you 
express. To do this you must feel what you utter, and give 
utterance to that feeling. It is not sufficient that you should 
feel what you are saying, but you must give outward expression 
to it. Here is where the art of Acting and Gesticulation comes 
into play. With proper gestures you can make all you say 
just as plain to the sight, as by the tones of the voice, you can 
the sounds to the ear. Therefore, I say, assiduously study the 
physical branch of Elocution. 

The stroke of the gesture, and that of the voice, should be 
simultaneous, otherwise its effect is marred and the force of the 
movement is lost. Some teachers claim that gesture should 
precede speech, but in this I think they are wrong. The action 
may commence long before you utter the word, requiring the 
stroke of the gesture, but when the word is spoken, the stroke 
of the gesture must be delivered at the exact moment that the 
stroke of the voice is heard. 

The arm and hand are the most important parts of the body 
in reference to oratory ; in fact, they may be considered as 
jointly constituting the grand oratorical weapon. I bold that 
both hands should be equally used in the formation of gesture. 
When the person addressed is on the right of the speaker, use 
the right hand, and when on the left, the one on that side of 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 47 

the body, at the same time advancing the corresponding foot. 
I am aware that this advice is in direct conflict with that of the 
ancient orators, but then, we must bear in mind, that it was 
outside influences, bearing only on that age. that caused the 
old masters to say that the left hand should never perform 
gesture alone, and should be sparingly used even in conjunction 
with the other hand. Their form of dress precluded the use of 
the left arm, as it was generally engaged holding up the toga. 
consequently the principal part of gesticulation devolved upon 
the right Therefore, with the passing away of the ancient 
garment, I think the custom of employing the right arm alone, 
should also be a thing of the past. 

When the mason commences work^ on a building, he starts 
with the foundation, and after completing that sets about rearing 
the structure firmly upon it. Following out this plan I will com- 
mence with the positions of the feet. In the section of this 
work devoted to Gesture, the Student will find that I give 
only six positions of the feet, and I think, by the time he has 
finished perusing the book, he will agree with me in saying they 
are all that is necessary. Whenever the speaker extends the 
arms forward, whether downward, horizontal or elevated, he 
must take the second position of the foot. If the movement 
expresses joy, supplication, veneration, etc, he must take 
either the second position right, or second position left foot, 
according to whichever hand is performing the principal gesture ; 
but, if the movement is brought about by fear, horror, surprise, 
etc., he must take the second position retired, as by this action, 
the body is drawn away from the object which presents the 
motive for the movement. The examples among the exercises 
will, I trust, make this perfectly clear. 

Now ; as to the divisions of gesture. I divide them into three 
parts similar to the voice: downward, horizontal and elevated, 
corresponding with the three registers, and used to express the 
same feelings. These are the vertical gestures, and those that 
cross them have been termed transverse movements. Of the 
latter there are four, making twelve primary movements of the 
arms in all. This portion of my system is founded on that of 
the l\ev. Gilbert Austin, who devoted great study to gesticula- 
tion as a science, but I have seen fit to differ from him consider- 
ably, and only adopted some of his views, applying them in my 
own way. In their regular order among the exercises I shall 
consider the movements and positions of the body and head, 
expressions of the eyes, lips, face, etc. 

The different exercises that I have inserted in this work, both 
for the cultivation of voice and gesture, are those which I have 
found of most benefit to Students during my experience oi^ 
fifteen years as a teacher of elocution and dramatic action, and 



48 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

the assertions in reference to positions and movements on the 
stage or platform have been practically tested by me before 
audiences in all parts of the country, and found to work admir- 
ably. 

Attached to this system of Elocution is a selection of Prose 
and Poetical pieces, made by the late Prof. Philip Lawrence, 
who was for over forty years acknowledged to be one of the 
finest elocutionists and teachers of his time. Many of the 
prominent Speakers of the present day were his students, and 
owe much to his simple yet thorough method of imparting 
elocutionary knowledge. A number of his poems will be found 
among the selections. 

Before parting with my reader, I would impress on him the 
necessity of thoroughly understanding his subject, then identi- 
fying himself with it, and, if this is done, he will succeed, for 
then we can safely say, in the language of Richelieu, 

41 There's no such word as fail." 

Edwin Gordon Lawrence. 



THE IAWEEHCE RECITES. 



THE WIDOWS CLOAK. 

(BY SAMUEL FERGUSON.) 
I. 

There's a widow lady worthy of a word of kindly tone 
From all who love good Neighborhood, and true alle- 
giance own 
To motherly Humanity in love and sorrow tried, 
Who lives, some season of the year, 

Adown Dee-side. 

n. 

To her sister in the cottage, to the Highland hut, comes 

she; 
She takes the old wife by the hand, she shares her cup of 

tea; 
She loves the lowly people : years of life have taught her 

well, 
In God's great household, they, the bulk 

Of inmates, dwell. 

in. 
She loves the Highland nature; and the Dalriad deeps 

beyond, 
To every pressure of her palm the Irish hearts respond. 
What though we seldom see her St. Patrick's hall within, 
The Gael her presence yearly cheers 

Are kith and kin. 
4 (49) 



50 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

IV. 

The Castle of Balmoral stands proudly on its bill ; 
This simple widow lady has a finer castle still — 
Where hill-big keep and chapel soar up the southern sky, 
Above the woods of Windsor, 

And Thames swells by. 

v. 

The iron castles on the shore that sentry Portsea beach — 
The iron castles on the sea, their guns a shipload each, 
That ride in Spithead anchorage — the ordnance, great 

and small, 
Of Woolwich and of London Tower— 

She owns them all. 

VI. 

Ten thousand are her men-at-call, that ride in golden 

spurs ; 
The citied margins of the seas, half round the world, are 

hers ; 
And mightiest monarchs, fain to sit at her right hand, 

are seen ; 
For she's the Queen of the Three-joined-Realm. 

God save the Queen ! 

VII. 

And sons she has, good plenty, and daughters, if need 

were 
Of issue of the lawful line, to sit St. Edward's chair: 
For God has filled the quiver; and, with countenance 

elate, 
He, next in lawful right, may speak 

His foe in gate. 

VIII. 

And Denmark's gracious daughter, who leads the bright 

array — 
Our. darling, ever welcome as flowers that come in May — 
God, shield the precious creature beneath Thy angels' 

wings, 
And send her lovely nature 

Down lines of kings ! 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 51 

IX. 

Fine men the princely brothers 5 and time is coming 

when, 
By sea and land, they all may show that they are manly 

men ; 
Alert, at clear-eyed Honor's call, to give their duty-day 
Afield — on deck — in battery — 

Come what come may. 

x. 

Now mark yon, Kings' and Emperors who rule this peo- 
pled ball 

That nourishes us. man and beast, and graveward bears 
us all, 

The blood of horses and of men, and lives of men, will lie 

Main heavy on their souls that break 

Her amity. 

XI. 

Victoria's sheltering mantle is over India spread ; 

Who dare to touch the garment's hem, look out for men 

in red : 
Look out for gun and tumbril a-crash through mound and 

hedge, 
For shot and shell and Sheffield shear- 
Steel, point and edge ! 

XII. 

The fires are banked 5 in road and port the seaman-heart 

swells large ; 
The horses from the Irish fields are champing for the charge $ 
Stand back ! keep off ! the changing cheek of Peace has 

lost its smile, 
And grave her eyes, and grave her prayer, 

To heaven the while : 

XIII. 

"Maker, Preserver of Mankind, and Savior that Thou art, 
Assuage the rage of wrathful men ; abate their haughty 

heart ; 
Or, if not so Thy holy will, suppress the idle sigh, 
And God Sabaoth be the name 

We know Thee by!" 



52 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

THE CURTAIN FALLS. 
(from tinsley's magazine.) 

Clowns are capering in motley, drums are beaten, trum- 
pets blown, 

Laughing crowds block up the gangway — husky is the 
showman's tone. 

Rapidly the booth is filling, and the rustics wait to hear 

A cadaverous strolling player, who will presently appear. 

Once his voice, in tones of thunder, shook the crazy 

caravan : 
Now he entered, pale and gasping, and no sentence 

glibly ran : 
Sad and vacant were his glances, and his memory seemed 

to fail, 
While with feeble effort striving to recall Othello's tale. 

O'er his wasted form the spangles glittered in the lamp's 

dull ray ; 
Ebon, tresses, long and curling, covered scanty locks of 

gray ; 
Rouge and powder hid the traces of the stern relentless 

years, 
As gay flowers hide a ruin, tottering ere it disappears. 

Not with age, serenely ebbing to the everlasting sea, 
Calmly dreaming of past pleasures, or of mysteries to be, 
Nay, the melancholy stroller kept his onward pilgrimage, 
Until Death, the pallid prompter, called him from Life's 
dusky stage. 

Lofty hopes and aspirations all had faded with his 

youth, 
And for daily bread he acted now in yonder canvas 

booth ; 
Yet there flashed a fire heroic from his visage worn and 

grave, 
Deeper, fuller, came his accents — Man was master, Time 

the slave. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 53 

And again with force and feeling he portrayed the loving 

Moor; 
Told the story to the Senate — told the pangs which they 

endure 
Who are torn with jealous passion, while delightedly 

the crowd 
Watched the stroller's changing aspect, and applauded 

him aloud. 



Was it butf a trick of acting, to depict a frenzied mood, 
That there came a sudden silence, and Othello voiceless 

stood ? 
Ah, 'twas all Othello's story Nature left the power to tell — 
'Twas his own sad drama ending as the dark-green 

curtain fell. 



While they shouted for the stroller, and the hero's fate 

would see, 
He had made his final exit — joined a higher company. 
With no loving kiss at parting, with no friend to press his 

hand, 
The invisible scene-shifter had unveiled the Spirit-land. 



Huskier still became the showman as he forward came 

and bowed, 
Vaguety muttering excuses to appease the gaping crowd; 
Then he knelt beside the stroller, but his words were lost 

on air — 
Never more uprose the curtain on the figure lying 

there; 

One brief hour their cares forgetting, his old comrades of 

the show 
Stood around his grave in silence, and some honest tears 

did flow. 
Then the booth again was opened, crammed with many a 

rustic boor, 
And another strolling player told the story of the 

Moor. 



54 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



THE CHURCH OF THE WORLD. 

BY &ICHABD MONCKTON MILNJES, (LORD HOUGHTON.^ 

I stood one Sunday morning 

Before a large church-door ; 
The congregation gathered, 

And carriages a score. 
From one outstepped a lady 

I oft had seen before. 

Her hand was on a prayer-book, 

And held a vinaigrette : 
The sign of man's redemption 

Clear on the book was set, 
Above the cross there glistened 

A golden coronet. 

For her the obsequious beadle 

The inner door flung wide, 
Lightly, as up a ball-room, 

Her footsteps seemed to glide ; 
There might be good thoughts in her, 

For all her evil pride. 

But after her a woman 

Peeped wistfully within, 
On whose wan face was graven 

Life's hardest discipline, 
The trace of the sad trinity 

Of weakness, pain, and sin. 

The few free seats were crowded 
Where she could rest and pray. 

With her worn garb contrasted 
Each side in fair array. 

Gods house holds no poor sinners, 
She sighed, and walked away. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 55 

Old Heathendom's vast temples 

Hold men of every state ; 
The steps of fair Benares 

Commingle small and great ; 
The dome of St. Sophia 

Confounds all human state ; 

The aisles of blessed Peter 

Are open all the year. 
Throughout wide Christian Europe 

The Christian's right is clear 
To use God's house in freedom, 

Each man the other's peer, 

Save only in that England 

Where this disgrace I saw — 
England, where no one crouches 

In Tyranny's base awe — 
England, where all are equal 

Beneath the eye of law. 

Yet there, too, each cathedral 

Contrasts its ample room; 
No weary beggar resting 

Within the holy gloom ; 
No earnest student musing 

Beside the famous tomb. 

Who shall remove this evil 

That desecrates our age — 
A scandal great as ever 

Iconoclastic rage ? 
Who to this Christian people 

Restore their heritage ? 

"DID YOU SPEAK ?» 

I SAW the prettiest picture 

Through the garden -fence to-day, 
Where the lilies look like angels 

Just let out to play, 
And the roses laugh to see them, 

All the sweet June day. 



66 THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 

Through a hole behind the woodbine, 

Just large enough to see 
(By begging the lilies' pardon), 

Without his seeing me — 
My neighbor's boy, and Pharaoh 

The finest dog you'll see, 

If you search from Maine to Georgia 

For a dog of kingly air, 
And the tolerant high-bred patience, 

The great St. Bernard's wear, 
And the sense of lofty courtesy 

In breathing common air. 

I called the child's name — " Franko ! w 

Hands up to shield my eyes 
From the jealous roses — " Franko ! " 

A burst of bright surprise, 
Transfixed the little fellow 

With wide bewildered eyes. 

" Franko ! " Ah, the mystery ! 

Up and down, around, 
Looks Franko, searching gravely 

Sky and trees and ground, 
Wise wrinkles on the eyebrows ! 

Studying the sound. 

" Franko ! " Puzzled Franko ! 

The lilies will not tell, 
The roses shake with laughter 

But keep the secret well ; 
The woodbine nods importantly, 

" Who spoke ? » cries Franko. " Tell ! " 

Grave wrinkles on his eyebrows, 

Hand upon his knee, 
Head bared for close reflection, 

Lighted curls blown free — 
The child's soul to the brute's soul 

Goes out earnestly. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 57 

From the child's eyes to the brute's eyes 

And earnestly and slow, 
The child's young voice falls on my ear: 

''Did you speak, Pharaoh?" 
The bright thought growing on him — 

" Did you speak, Pharaoh ? n 



THE PEIDE OF BATTERY B. 
(f. h. gassaway.) 

South mountain towered upon our right, far off the 

river lay, 
And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay. 
At last the muttering guns were still ; the day died slow 

and wan ; 
At last the gunners' pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns 

began. 
When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant 

flood 
Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden 

stood. 
A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed 
(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed). 
And as we stared her little hand went to her curly head 
In grave salute: " And who are you?" at length the 

sergeant said. 
" And where's your home ? " he growled again. She lisped 

out, u Who is me ? 
Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of 

Battery B. 
My home ? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma 

are dead, 
And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned. 
And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers too, 
And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at 

review. 
But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have 

their smoke, 
And so they're cross — why, even Ned won't play with me 

and joke ; 



58 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

And the big colonel said to-day — I hate to hear him swear — 
He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yank had over 

there. 
And so I thought when beat the drum and the big guns 

were still, 
I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the 

hill 
And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 

Lone Jack ; 
Please do — when we get some again I'll surely bring it 

back. 
Indeed I will, for Ned, says he, if I do what I say, 
I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay." 
We brimmed her tiny apron o'er ; you should have heard 

her laugh 
As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous 

half. 
To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy 

men, 
Until the sergeant's husky voice said, " 'Tention, squad ! " 

and then 
We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid, 
And watched her toddle out of sight — or else 'twas tears 

that hid 
Her tiny form — nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word, 
Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind w r e 

heard ! 
We sent it back, and cast sad eyes upon the scene around ; 
A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once 

had bound. 
That's all — save when the dawn awoke again the work of 

hell, 
And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming 

missiles fell, 
Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to 

see 
Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of 

Battery B." 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 59 

THE MANGO TREE. 

(BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.) 

He wiled me through the f urzy croft ; 

He wiled ine down the sandy lane ; 
He told his boy's love, soft and oft, 

Until I told him mine again. 

We married, and we sailed the main ; 

The soldier and the soldier's wife. 
We marched through many a burning plain; 

We sighed for many a gallant life. 

But his — God kept it safe from harm. 

He toiled and dared and earned command, 
And those three stripes upon his arm 

Were more to me than gold or land. 

Sure he would win some great renown; 

Our lives were strong, our hearts were high. 
One night the fever struck him down. 

I sat and stared and saw him die. 

I had his children — one, two, three. 

One week I had them, blithe and sound; 
The next — beneath this mango tree, 

By him in barrack burying-ground. 

I sit beneath the mango shade ; 

I live my five years' life all o'er: 
Round } T onder stems his children played; 

He mounted guard at yonder door. 

'Tis I, not they, am gone and dead. 

They live, they know, they feel, they see; 
Their spirits light the golden shade 

Beneath the giant mango tree. 

All things, save I, are full of life; 

The minas, pluming velvet breasts; 
The monkeys, in their foolish strife; 

The swooping hawks, the swinging nests. 



60 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

The lizards, basking on the soil, 

The butterflies who sun their wings, 

The bees about their household toil — 
They live, they love, the blissful things. 

Each tender purple mango-shoot, 

That folds and droops so bashful down- 
It lives; it sucks some hidden root; 
It rears at last a broad green crown. 

It blossoms, and the children cry: 

" Watch when the mango apples fall." 

It lives; but rootless, fruitless, I — 
I breathe and dream — and that is all. 

Thus am I dead, yet cannot die ; 

Hut still within my foolish brain 
There hangs a pale blue evening sky, 

A furzy croft, a sandy lane. 



THE FATE OP VIRGINIA. 

(t. b. macaulay.) 

In order to render the commencement less abrupt, six lines of 
Introduction have been added to this extract from the tine ballad 
by Macaulay. 

"Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in 

Rome?" 
"Claimed as a slave, a free-born maid is dragged here from 

her home. 
On Fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of blight; 
The tyrant's creature, Marcus, asserts an owners right, 
0, shame on Roman manhood ! Was ever plot more 

clear ! 
But look! the maiden's father comes! Behold Virginius 

here!" 

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside, 
To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn 
and hide. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 61 

Hard by, a batcher on a block had laid his whittle down, — 
Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown. 
And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to 

swell, 
And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet 

child, farewell ! 
The house that was the happiest within the Roman 

walls, — 
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble 

halls, 
Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal 

gloom, 
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. 

"The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand 

this way; 
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the 

prey; 
With all his wit he little deems that, spurned, betrayed, 

bereft, 
Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left; 
He little deems that, in this hand, I clutch what still 

can save 
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of 

the slave; 
Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and 

blow, — 
Foul outrage, which thou knowest not, — which thou shalt 

never know. 
Then clasp me round the neck more once, and give me one 

more kiss ; 
And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but 

this!" 
With that, he lifted high the steel, and smote her in 

the side, 
And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she 

died. 

Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath ; 
And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of 
death ; 



62 THE LAWREKCE RECITER. 

And in another moment brake forth from one and all 
A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall ; 
Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered 

nigh, 
And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife 

on high: 
" 0, dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, 
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us 

twain ; 
And e'en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, 
Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!" 
So spake the slayer of his child ; then, where the body lay, 
Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went 

his way. 

Then up sprang Appius Claudius : " Stop him, alive or dead ! 
Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his 

head ! » 
He looked upon his clients, — but none would work his will ; 
He looked upon his lictors,— but they trembled and stood 

still. 
And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, 
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left ; 
And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home, 
And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are 

done in Rome. 

INDEPENDENCE BELL— JULY 4, 1776. 

There was tumult in the city, 

In the quaint old Quaker town, 
And the streets were rife with people 

Pacing restless up and down — 
People gathering at the corners, 

Where they whispered each to each, 
And the sweat stood on their temples 

With the earnestness of speech. 

As the bleak Atlantic currents 

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, 

So they beat against the State House, 
So they surged against the door; 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 63 

And the mingling of their voices 

Made a harmony profound, 
Till the quiet street of Chestnut 

Was all turbulent with sound. 

So they surged against the State House, 

While all solemnly inside 
Sat the " Continental Congress," 

Truth and reason for their guide. 
O'er a simple scroll debating, 

Which, though simple it might be, 
Yet should shake the cliffs of England 

With the thunders of the free. 

Far aloft in that high steeple 

Sat the bellman, old and gray ; 
He was weary of the tyrant 

And his iron-sceptered sway. 
So he sat, with one hand ready 

On the clapper of the bell, 
When his eye could catch the signal, 

The long-expected news, to tell. 

See ! See ! The dense crowd quivers 

Through all its lengthy line, 
As the boy beside the portal 

Hastens forth to give the sign ! 
With his little hands uplifted, 

Breezes dallying with his hair, 
Hark ! with deep, clear intonation, 

Breaks his young voice on the air : 

Hushed the people's swelling murmur, 

Whilst the boy cries joyously; 
"Ring!" he shouts, "King! grandpapa, 

Ring ! oh, ring for Liberty ! " 
Quickly, at the given signal 

The old bellman lifts his hand, 
Forth he sends the good news, making 

Iron music through the land. 



64 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

How they shouted ! What rejoicing ! 

How the old bell shook the air, 
Till the clang of freedom ruffled 

The calmly gliding Delaware ! 
How the bonfires and the torches 

Lighted up the night's repose, 
And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix, 

Our glorious liberty arose ! 

That old State House bell is silent, 

Hushed is now its clamorous tongue ; 
But the spirit it awaken'd 

Still is living — ever young ; 
And when we greet the smiling sunlight 

On the fourth of each July, 
We will ne'er forget the bellman 

Who, betwixt the earth and sky, 
Rung out, loudly, " Independence ; " 

Which, please God, shall never die ! 



WE MEET UPON THE LEVEL AND WE PART 
UPON THE SQUARE. 

We meet upon the level, and we part upon the square — 
What words of precious meaning those words Masonic are! 
Come, let lis contemplate them — they are worthy of a 

thought — 
In the very soul of Masonry those precious words are 

wrought. 

We meet upon the level, though from every station come — 
The rich man from his mansion, and the poor man from 

his home; 
For th« one must leave his heritage outside the Mason's 

door, 
While the other finds his best respect upon the checkered 

floor. 

We part upon the square, for the world must have its due ; 
We mingle with the multitude — a faithful band, and true, 
But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green ; 
And we long, upon the level, to renew the happy scene. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. G5 

There's a world where all are equal — we are journeying 

toward it fast, 
We shall meet upon the level there when the gates of 

Death are past, 
We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be 

there 
To try the blocks we offer with his own unerring square. 

We shall meet upon the level there, but never thence 

depart ; 
There's a Mansion — 'tis all ready for each faithful, 

trusting heart — 
There's a Mansion and a welcome, and a mulitude is there 
Who have met upon the level, and been tried upon the 

square. 

Let us meet upon the level, then, while laboring patient 

here — 
Let us meet and let us labor, though the labor be severe ; 
Already, in the Western sky, the signs bid us prepare 
To gather up our working tools, and part upon the square. 

Hands round, ye faithful Masons, in the bright, fraternal 

chain ! 
We part upon the square below to meet in Heaven, again. 
O ! what words of precious meaning those words Masonic 

are — 
We meet upon the level, and we part upon the square. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

(letgh hunt.) 

Abou Ben Adhem — may his tribe increase — 
Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel, writing in a book of gold. 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the Presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou ?" The vision raised its head, 
5 



66 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
u And mine is one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night 
It came again, with a great wakening light, 
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd ; 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 



RUM'S MANIAC. 
(t. w. kott.) 

Why am I thus? the maniac cried, 
Confined 'mid crazy people ? Why ? 

I am not mad, — knave, stand aside ! 
I'll have my freedom, or I'll die ; 

It's not for cure that here I've come 5 

I tell thee, all I want is rum, — 
I must have rum ! 

Sane ? yes, and have been all the while ; 

Why, then, tormented thus? 'Tis sad: 
Why chained, and held in duress vile ? 

The men who brought me here were mad; 
I will not stay where spectres come ; 
Let me go home ; I must have rum, — 
I must have rum ! 

*Tis he ! 'tis he ! my aged sire ! 

What has disturbed thee in thy grave? 
Why bend on me that eye of fire ? 

Why torment, since thou canst not save? 
Back to the church-yard whence you've come! 
Return, return ! but send me rum, — 
Oh, send me rum ! 

Why is my mother musing there, 
On that same consecrated spot 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 67 

Where once she taught me words of prayer? 

But now she hears, she heeds me not. 
Mute in her winding-sheet she stands; 
Cold, cold, I feel her icy hands, — 
Her icy hands ! 

She's vanished ; but a dearer friend, — 

I know her by her angel smile, — 
Has come her partner to attend, 

His hours of misery to beguile ; 
Haste, haste ! loved one, and set me free ; 
'Twere heaven to 'scape from hence to thee, — ■ 
From hence to thee. 

She does not hear ; away she flies, 

Regardless of the chain I wear^ 
Back to her mansion in the skies, 

To dwell with kindred spirits there. 
Why has she gone ? Why did she come ? 
God, I'm ruined ! Give me rum, — 
Oh, give me rum ! 

Hark, hark ! for bread my children cry, 

A cry that drinks my spirits up; 
But His in vain, in vain to try; 

Oh, give me back the drunkard's cup! 
My lips are parched, my heart is sad ; 
This cursed chain ! 'twill make me mad, — 
■Twill make me mad ! 

It won't wash out, that crimson stain ! 

I've scoured those spots and made them white; 
Blood reappears again, again, 

Soon as the morning brings the light! 
When from my sleepless couch I come, 
To see, to feel, — oh, give me rum! 
I must have rum. 

'Twas there T heard his piteous cry, 

And saw his last imploring look, 
But steeled my heart and bade him die, 

Then from him golden treasures took ; 



68 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Accursed treasure ! stinted sum ! 
Reward of guilt ! Give, give me rum, — 
Oh, give me rum ! 

Hark ! still I hear that piteous wail ; 

Before my eyes his spectre stands; 
And when it frowns on me I quail ! 

Oh, I would fly to other lands ; 
But, that pursuing, there 't would come ; 
There's no escape ! Oh, give me rum, — 
Oh, give me rum ! 

Guard, guard those windows ! bar that door ! 

Yonder I armed bandits see ! 
They've robbed my house of all its store, 

And now return to murder me ; 
They're breaking in ; don't let them come ! 
Drive, drive them hence ! but give me rum, — 
Oh, give me rum ! 

See how that rug those reptiles soil ; 

They're crawling o'er me in my bed; 
I feel their clammy, snaky coil 

On every limb, — around my head; 
With forked tongue I see them play, 
I hear them hiss; — tear them away, — 
Tear them away ! 

A fiend ! a fiend, w T ith many a dart, 

Glares on me with his bloodshot eye, 
And aims his missiles at my heart, — 

Oh ! whither, whither shall I fly ? 
Fly? No, it is no time for flight ; 

Fiend! I know thy hellish purpose well; 
Avaunt ! avaunt, thou hated sprite, 

And hie thee to thy native hell ! 

He's gone, he's gone ! and I am free: 
He's gone, the faithless, braggart liar; 

He said he'd come to summon me — 
See there again, my bed's on fire ! 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 69 

Fire ! water ! help ! Oh haste, I die ! 

The flames are kindling round my head! 
This smoke ! — I'm strangling ! — cannot fly ! 

Oh ! snatch me from this burning bed ! 

There, there, again! that demon's there, 

Crouching to make a fresh attack ; 
See how his flaming eyeballs glare ! 

Thou fiend of fiends, what's brought thee back? 
Back in thy car? for whom ? for where? 

He smiles, he beckons me to come : 
What are those words thou st wrirten there ? 

" In hell they never want for rum ! n 

Not want for rum ? Read that again ! 

I feel the spell ! haste, drive me down 
Where rum is free, where revellers reign 

And I can wear the drunkard's crown. 

Accept thy proffer, fiend ? I will ; 

And to thy drunken banquet come ; 
Fill the great cauldron from thy still 

With boiling, burning, fiery rum. 
There will I quench this horrid thirst; 

With boon companions drink and dwell ; 
Nor plead for rum, as here I must, — 

There's liberty to drink in hell. 

Thus raved that maniac rum had made ; 

Then starting from his haunted bed, 
On, on ! ye demons, on ! he said, 

Then silent sunk, — his soul had fled. 



ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS. 

(SHAKSPEARE.) 

Friends, Romans, countrymen ! lend me your ears j 
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do lives after them ; 
The good is oft interred with their bones: 



TO THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious; 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 
And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, — 
For Brutus is an honorable man, 
So are they all, all honorable men, — 
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 
But Brutus says he was ambitious, 
And Brutus is an honorable man. 
He hath brought many captives home to Home, 
Whose ramsoms did the general coffers fill : 
X>id this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff : 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, 
And Brutus is an honorable man. 
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, 
I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambitiuJ? V 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, 
And, sure, he is an honorable man. 
I apeak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 
You all did love him once, not without ca ise: 
What cause withholds you then to mour'i air huii V 
judgment, thou art fled to brutish bfusts, 
And men have lost their reason ! — Bear yvibl. mo ; 
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 
And I must pause till it come back to me. 

But yesterday the word of Caesar might 
Have stood against the world ; now lies he there, 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

Masters ! if I were disposed to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
Who, you all know, are honorable men. 

I will not do thein wrong; I rather choose 
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 71 

Thau I will wrong such honorable men. 

But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar ; 

I found it in his closet; 'tis his will. 

Let but the commons hear this testament, — 

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read, 

And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; 

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 

And, dying, mention it within their wills, 

Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 

Unto their issue. 

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle ; I remember 
The first time ever Csesar put it on ; 
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent ; 
That day he overcame the Nervii. — 
Look ! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through; 
See what a rent the envious Casca made ; 
Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed, 
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, 
Mark how the blood of Csesar followed it ! 
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved 
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; 
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel ; 
Judge, 0, ye gods, how dearly Caesar loved him ! 
This was the most unkindest cut of all ; 
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, 
Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart; 
And, in his mantle muffling up his face, 
Even at the base of Pompey's statue, 
Which all the while ran blood, great Csesar fell. 
0, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, 
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 
Oh ! now you weep ; and I perceive you feel 
The dint of pity ; — these are gracious drops. 
Kind souls ! What, weep you when you but behold 
Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look ye here ! 
Here is himself, marred, as you see, by traitors. 



72 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 
They that have done this deed are honorable ! 
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not, 
That made them do it. They are wise and honorable, 
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ; 
I am no orator, as Brutus is; 
But as you all know me, a plain, blunt man, 
That love my friend ; and that they know full well 
That gave me public leave to speak of him. 
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 
To stir men's blood ; — I only speak right on ; 
I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; 
Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, 
And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, 
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny ! 



HORATIUS AT THE BEIDGE. 
(t. b. macaulay.) 

The Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was 

low, 
And darkly looked he at the w T all, and darkty at the foe. 
"Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; 
And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save 

the town ? " 

Then out spoke brave Horatius, the Captain of the gate: 
"To every man upon this earth death cometh, soon or late. 
Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may; 
I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. 

"In yonder straight path a thousand may well be stopped 

by three, 
Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge 

with me ? " 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 73 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius — a Ramnian proud was 

he— 
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge 

with thee." 

And out spake strong Herminius — of Titian blood was 

he— 
" I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with 

thee." 
" Horatius," quoth the Consul, " as thou sayest, so let it 

be." 
And straight against that great array, forth went the 

dauntless Three. 



Soon all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see 

On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless 

Three. 
And from the ghastly entrance, where those bold Romans 

stood, 
The bravest shrank like boys who rouse an old bear in the 

wood. 

But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied, 
And now the bridge hangs tottering, above the boiling 

tide. 
"Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cry the Fathers 

all: 
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!" 

Back darted Spurius Lartius ; Herminius darted back ; 

And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the tim- 
bers crack ; 

But when they turned their faces, and on the further shore 

Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed 
once more. 

But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam, 
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the 

stream ; 
And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, 
As to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam. 



74 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

And, like a horse unbroken, when first he feels the rein, 
The furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny 

mane, 
And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free, 
And battlement, and plank and pier, whirled headlong to 

the sea. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind ; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood 

behind. 
" Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, with a smile on 

his pale face. 
"Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to 

our grace." 

Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to 

see ; 
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus naught spake 

he ; 
But he saw on Palatums the white porch of his home, 
And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers 

of Rome. 

"0, Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, 

A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this 

day!" 
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by 

his side, 
And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in 

the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank ; 
But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, stood gazing where 

he sank. 
And when above the surges they saw his crest appear, 
Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany could scarce forbear to 

cheer. 

But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of 

rain : 
And fast liis blood was flowing; and he was sore in pain, 
And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows, 
And oft they thought him sinking — but still again he rose. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 75 

Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil ease, 
Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing 

place : 
But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart 

within, 
And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin. 

"Curse on him ! " quoth false Sextus ; " will not the villain 

drown ? 
But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sacked 

the town ! w 
(i Heaven help him !" quoth Lars Posena, u and bring him 

safe to shore ; 
For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before." 

And now he feels the bottom; — now on dry earth he 

stands ; 
Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory 

hands. 
And, now with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping 

loud, 
He enters through the River Gate, borne by the joyous 

crowd. 



LITTLE JIM. 

The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, 
But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean ; 
The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling 

wild, 
As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child ; 
A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim: 
It was a collier's wife and child, they called him little Jim. 

And oh ! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her 

cheek, 
As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to 

speak, 
Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her 

life; 



76 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier** 

wife. 
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's 

bed, 
And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself 

instead. 

She gets her answer from the child : soft fall the words 

from him, 
" Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim, 
I have no pain, dear mother, now, but 0! I am so dry, 
Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you 

cry." 
With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip; 
He smiled to thank her, as he took each little, tiny sip. 

"Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good-night 

to him, 
And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas ! poor little Jim ! 
She knew that he was dying ; that the child she loved so 

dear, 
Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear: 
The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard, 
The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word. 

He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, 
He took the candle in his hand and walked towards the 

bed; 
His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal, 
And see, his wife has joined him— the stricken couple 

kneel : 
With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of 

Him, 
In heaven once more to meet again their own poor little 

Jim. 



Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 77 

FRA GIACAMO. 

(ROBERT BUCHANAN.) 

Alas. Fra Giacamo, 

Too late ! — but follow me; 
Hush ! draw the curtain — so ! — 

She is dead, quite dead, you see. 
Poor little lady ! she lies 
With the light gone out of her eyes, 
But her features still wear that soft 

Gray meditative expression, 
Which you must have noticed oft, 

And admired too, at confession. 
How saintly she looks, and how meek ! 

Though this be the chamber of death, 

I fancy I feel her breath 
As I kiss her on the cheek. 
With that pensive religious face, 
She has gone to a holier place! 
And I hardly appreciated her — 

Her praying, fasting, confessing, 
Poorly, I own, 1 mated her ; 
I thought her too cold, and rated her 

For her endless image-caressing. 
Too saintly for me by far, 
As pure and as cold as a star, 

Not fashion'd for kissing and pressing — 
But made for a heavenly crown. 
Aye, father, let us go down — 

But first, if you please, your blessing! 

Wine ? No ? Come, come you must ! 

You'll bless it with your prayers, 
And quaff a cup, I trust, 

To the health of the saint upstairs? 
My heart is aching so ! 

And I feel so weary and sad 

Through the blow that I have had — 
You'll sit, Fra Giacamo? 
My friend ! (and a friend I rank you 

For the sake of that saint) — nay, nay! 



73 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Here's the wine — as you love me, stay ! — 
'Tis Montepulciano ! — Thank you. 

Heigho ! 'Tis now six summers 

Since I won that angel and married her: 

I was rich, not old, and carried her 
Off in the face of all comers. % 

So fresh, yet so brimming with soul ! 

A tenderer morsel, I swear, 
Never made the dull black coal 

Of a monk's eye glitter and glare. 

Your pardon ! — nay, keep your chair ! 
I wander a little, but mean 
No offense to the gray gaberdine: 
Of the church, Fra G-iacamo, 
I'm a faithful upholder, you know. 
But (humor me !) she was as sweet 

As the saints in your convent windows, 
So gentle, so meek, so discreet, 

She knew not what lust does or sin does. 
I'll confess, though, before we were one 

I deemed her less saintly and thought 

The blood in her veins had caught 
Some natural warmth from the sun. 
I was wrong — I was blind as a bat — 

Brute that I was, how I blundered! 
Though such a mistake as that 
Might have occurred as pat 

To ninety-nine men in a hundred. 
Yourself, for example : you've seen her? 
Spite her modest and pious demeanor, 
And the manners so nice and precise, 

Seem'd there not color and light, 

Bright motion and appetite, 
That were scarcely consistent with ice? 
Externals implying, }^ou see, 

Internals Jess saintly than human? 
Pray speak, for between you and me 

You 're not a bad judge of a woman! 

A jest — but a jest ! . . . Very true : 
'Tis hardly becoming to jest, 
And that saint upstairs at rest — 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Her soul may be listening, too ! 
Well may your visage turn yellow — 
I was always a brute of a fellow ! 
To think how I doubted and doubted, 
Suspected, grumbled at, flouted 
That golden-hair'd angel — and solely 
Because she was zealous and holy ! 
Noon and night and morn 

She devoted herself to piety; 
Not that she seemed to scorn 

Or dislike her husband's society; 
But the claims of her soul superseded 
All that I asked for or needed, 
And her thoughts were afar away 
From the level of sinful clay, 
And she trembled if earthly matters 
Interfered with her aves and paters. 
Poor dove, she so fluttered in flying 

Above the dim vapors of hell — 
Bent on self-sanctifying — 
That she never thought of trying 

To save her husband as well. 
And while she was duly elected 

For place in the heavenly roll, 
I (brute that I was !) suspected 

Her manner of saving her soul. 
So, half for the fun of the thing, 
What did I (blasphemer !) but fling 
On my shoulders the gown of a monk — 

Whom I managed for that very day 

To get safely out of the way — 
And seat me, half sober, half drunk, 
With the cowl thrown over my face, 
In the father confessor's place. 
Eheu ! benedicite I 
In her orthodox sweet simplicity, 
With that pensive gray expression 
She sighfulty knelt at confession, 
While I bit my lips till they bled, 

And dug my nails in my hand, 
And heard with averted head 

What I'd guess'd and could understand. 



80 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Each word was a serpent's sting, 

But, wrapt in my gloomy gown, 

I sat, like a marble thing, 

As she told me all ! — Sit down ! 

More wine, Fra Giacamo! 

One cup — if you love me ! No? 

What, have these dry lips drank 

So deep of the sweets of pleasure — 
Sub rosa, but quite without measure- 
That Montepulciano tastes rank ? 

Come, drink ! 'twill bring the streaks 

Of crimson back to your cheeks ; 

Come, drink again to the saint 

Whose virtues you loved to paint, 

Who, stretched on her wifely bed, 

With the tender gray expression 
You used to admire at confession, 

Lies poisoned, overhead ! 

Sit still — or, by Heaven, you die ! 
Face to face, soul to soul, you and I 
Have settled accounts in a fine 
Pleasant fashion, over our wine. 
Stir not, and seek not to fly — 
Nay, whether or not, you are mine ! 
Thank Montepulciano for giving 

Your death in such delicate sips ; 
'Tis not every monk ceases living 

With so pleasant a taste on his lips; 
But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss, 

Take this ! and this ! and this ! 

Cover him over, Pietro, 
And bury him in the court below — 
You can be secret, lad, I know ! 
And, hark you, then to the convent go- 
Bid every bell of the convent toll, 
And the monks say mass for your mistress's soul. 



An honest man, and a pure woman, are two of the 
noblest works of God. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 81 

THE ANGELS OP BUENA VISTA. 

(jOHX G. WHITTIER.) 

In the terrible fisht of Buena Vista, Mexican women were seen 
hovering near the field of death, for the purpose of giving aid and 
succor to the wounded. One poor woman was found surrounded 
by the maimed and suffering of both armies, ministering to the 
wants of Americans as well as Mexicans with impartial tenderness. 

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far 

away, 
O'er the cimp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, 
Who is iosing ? w r ho is winning ? are they far or come 

thoy near? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we 

hear. 

"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls; 
Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their 

souls i " 
Who is losing ? who is winning ? " Over hill and over 

plain, 
I -see but smoke of cannon, clouding through the mountain 



Holy Mother, keep our brothers ! Look Ximena, look once 

more: 
l( Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, 
Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot 

and horse, 
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its 

mountain course." 

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has 

rolled away; 
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of 

gray. 
Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of 

Minon* wheels ; 
There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at 

their heels. 

* Minon (pronounced rain-yon) was a Mexican general. 
6 



82 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

il Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreats and now 
advances ! 

Right against the hlazing cannon shivers Puebla's charg- 
ing lances ! 

Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot 
together fall ; 

Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs 
the Northern ball." 

Nearer came the storm, and nearer, rolling fast and fright- 
ful on. 

Speak, Ximena, speak, and tell us who has lost and who 
has won : 

a Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together fall ; 

O'er the dying rush the living ; pray, my sisters, for them 
all ! 

" Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting ; Blessed Mother, save 

my brain ! 
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of 

slain ; 
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and 

strive to rise; 
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before 

our eyes ! 

" Oh, my heart's love ! oh, my dear one ! lay thy poor 

head on my knee ; 
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? Canst thou hear 

me? Canst thou see ? 
Oh, my husband, brave and gentle ! oh, my Bernard, look 

once more 
On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is 



Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; la} r thy dear one down 

to rest ; 
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his 

breast ; 
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses 

said ; 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 83 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier 

lay, 
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his 

life away; 
But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, 
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her 

head ; 
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon he? 

dead; 
But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling 

breath of pain, 
And she raised the cooling water to his parched lips again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and 

faintly smiled ; 
Was that pitying face his mothers ? did she watch beside 

her child ? 
All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart 

supplied ; 
With her kiss upon his forehead, u Mother ! " murmured 

he, and died. 

"A bitter curse upon them, poor bo} r , who led thee forth 
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely, in the 

North!" 
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with 

her dead, 
And turned to soothe the living still, and bind the wounds 

which bled. 

Look forth once more, Ximena: "Like a cloud before the 

wind 
Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and 

death behind ; 
Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded 

strive ; 
Hide your faces, holy angels! 0, thou Christ of GoJ, 

forgive." 



€ 1 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Sink, Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray 

shadows fall; 
t)ying brothers, fighting demons, — drop thy curtain over 

all! 
Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the 

battle rolled, 
In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew 

cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn, and faint, 

and lacking food ; 
Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they 

hung, _ 
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and 

Northern tongue. 

Not wholly lost, Father ! is this evil world of ours"; 1 
Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the 

Eden flowers; 
From its smoking hell of battle Love and Pity send their 

prayer, 
And still thy white- winged angels hover dimly in our air. 



EUGENE ARAM'S DREAM. 

(THOMAS HOOD.) 

'Twas in the prime of summer-time, 

An evening calm and cool 
And four-and-twenty happy boys 

Came bounding out of school ; 
There were some that ran, and some that leapt 

Like troutlets in a pool. 

Away they sped, with gamesome minds, 

And souls untouched by sin ; 
^To a level mead they came, and there 

They drave the wickets in : 
Pleasantly shone the setting sun 

Over the town of Lynn. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. £5 

Like sportive deer they coursed about, 

And shouted as they ran, — 
Turning to mirth all things of earth, 

As only boyhood can ; 
But the usher sat remote from all, 

A melancholy man ! 

His hat was off, his vest apart, 

To catch Heaven's blessed brpeze ; 
For a burning thought was in his brow, 

And his bosom ill at ease ; 
So he leaned his head upon his hands, and read 

The book between his knees. 

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, 

Nor ever glanced aside, 
For the peace of his soul he read that book 

In the golden eventide: 
Much study had made him very lean, 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he shut the ponderous tome, 

With a fast and fervent grasp 
He strained the dusky covers close, 

And fixed the brazen hasp : 
"0 God ! could 1 so close my mind, 

And clasp it with a clasp ! " 

Then leaping on his feet upright, 

Some moody turns he took, — 
Now up the mead, then down the mead, 

And past a shady nook, — 
And lo! he saw a little boy 

That pored upon a book. 

"My gentle lad. what is't you read, 

Romance or fairy fable ? 
Or is it some historic page, 

Of kings and crowns unstable ?" 
The young boy gave an upward glance,— 

"It is 4 The Death of Abel ! ' " 



86 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

The usher took six hasty strides, 

As smit with sudden pain, — 
Six hasty strides beyond the place, 

Then slowly back again ; 
And down he sat beside the lad, 

And talked with him of Cain ; 

And, long since then, of bloody men 

Whose deeds tradition saves ; 
Of lonely folk cut off unseen, 

And hid in sudden graves ; 
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 

And murders done in caves ; 

And how the sprites of injured men 

Shriek upward from the sod. — 
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point 

To show the burial clod ; 
And unknown facts of guilty acts 

Are sqen in dreams from God ; 

He told how murderers walked the earth 

Beneath the curse of Cain, 
With crimson clouds before their eyes, 

And flames about their brain ; 
For blood has left upon their souls 

Its everlasting stain. 

" And well," quoth he, "I know for truth, 
Their pangs must be extreme, — 

Woe, woe, unutterable woe, — 
Who spill life's sacred stream ! 

For why? Methought, last night, I wrought 
A murder in a dream ! 

"One that had never done me wrong,— 

A fe<ble man, and old ; 
I led him to a lonely field, — 

The moon shone clear and cold ; 
'Now here/ said I, ' this man shall die, 

And 1 will have his gold ! * 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 87 

u Two sudden blows with ragged stick, 

And one with a heavy stone, 
One hurried gash with a hasty knife, 

And then the deed was done ; 
There was nothing lying at my foot, 

But lifeless flesh and bone. 

"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, 

That could not do me ill ; 
And yet I feared him all the more, 

For lying there so still ; 
There was a manhood in his look, 

That murder could not kill. 

"And, lo! the universal air 

Seemed lit with ghastly flame ; 
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 

Were looking down in blame ; 
I took the dead man by his hand, 

And called upon his name. 

u God ! it made me quake to see 

Such sense within the slain; 
But when I touched the lifeless clay, 

The blood gushed out amain ; 
For every clot a burning spot 

Was scorching in my brain. 

"My head was like an ardent coal; 

My heart as solid ice ; 
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 

Was at the devil's price ; 
A dozen times I groaned ; the dead 

Had never groaned but twice. 

"And now, from forth the frowning sky, 

From the heaven's topmost height, 
I heard a voice, — the awful voice 

Of the blood-avenging sprite: 
'Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead, 

And hide it from my sight ! ' 



88 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

"I took the dreary body up, 

And cast it in a stream, — 
A sluggish water, black as ink, 

The depth was so extreme. 
My gentle boy, remember this 

Is nothing but a dream ! 

"Down went the corpse with hollow plunge, 

And vanished in the pool; 
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, 

And washed my forehead cool, 
And sat among the urchins young, 

That evening in the school. 

"0 heaven ! to think of their white souls, 

And mine so black and grim ! 
I could not share in childish prayer, 

Nor join in evening hymn ; 
Like a devil of the pit I seemed, 

'Mid holy cherubim. 

"And peace went with them, one and all, 

And each calm pillow spread; 
But guilt was my grim chamberlain, 

That lighted me to bed; 
And drew my midnight curtains round, 

With fingers bloody red. 

"All night I lay in agony, 

In anguish dark and deep, 
My fevered eyes I dared not close, 

But stared aghast at Sleep ; 
For sin has rendered unto her 

The keys of hell to keep. 

" All night I lay in agony, 

From weary chime to chime, 
With one besetting, horrid hint, 

That racked me all the time, — ■ 
A mighty yearning, like the first 

Fierce impulse unto crime. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 89 

"One stern tyrannic thought, that made 

All other thoughts its slave; 
Stronger and stronger every pulse 

Did that temptation crave, 
Still urging me to go and see 

The dead man in his grave. 

" Heavily I rose up. as soon 

As light was in the sky, 
And sought the black, accursed pool, 

With a wild, misgiving eye; 
And I saw the dead in the river bed, 

For the faithless stream was dry. 

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook 

The dewdrop from its wing; 
But I never marked its morning flight, 

I never heard it sing ; 
For I was stooping once again 

Under the horrid thing. 

"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 

I took him up and ran ; 
There was no time to dig a grave 

Before the day began : 
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 

I hid the murdered man ; 

"And all that day I read in school, 

But my thought was otherwhere; 
As soon as the midday task was done, 

In secret I was there ; 
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, 

And still the corpse was bare. 

(i Then down I cast me on my face, 

And first began to weep, 
For 1 knew ray secret then was one 

That earth refused to keen. — 
Or land or sea. though he should be 

Ten thousand fathoms deep. 



90 THE LAWRENCE RECITER 

" So wills the fierce avenging sprite, 

Till blood for blood atones ; 
Ay, though he's buried in a care, 

And trodden down with stones, 
And years have rotted off his flesh, 

The world shall see his bones. 

" God ! that horrid, horrid dream 

Besets me now, awake; 
Again, again, with dizzy brain, 

The human life I take ; 
And my red right hand grows raging hot, 

Like Cranmer's at the stake. 

"And still no peace for the restless clay, 

Will wave or mould allow; 
The horrid thing pursues my soul, — 

It stands before me now ! " 
The fearful boy looked up, and saw 

Huge drops upon his brow. 

That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin eyelids kissed, 
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, 

Through the cold and heavy mist; 
And Eugene Aram walked between, 
With gyves upon his wrist. 



THE POLISH BOY. 

(ANN S. STEPHENS.) 

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, 
That cut, like blades of steel, the air, 

Causing the creeping blood to chill 
With the sharp cadence of despair? 

Again they come, as if a heart 

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, 

And every string had voice apart 
To utter its peculiar woe. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. SI 

Whence came they? from yon temple where 
An altar, raised for private prayer, 
Now forms the warrior's marble bed 
Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 

The dim funereal tapers throw 

A holy lustre o'er his brow, 

And burnish with their rays of light 

The mass of curls that gather bright 

Above the haughty brow and eye 

Of a young boy that's kneeling by. 

What hand is that, whose icy press 

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, 
But meets no answering caress ? 

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. 
It is the hand of her whose cry 

Rang wildty, late, upon the air, 
When the dead warrior met her eye 

Outstretched upon the altar there. 

With pallid lip, and stony brow 
She murmurs forth her anguish now. 
But hark ! the tramp of heavy feet 
Is heard along the bloody street ; 
Nearer and nearer yet they come, 
With clanking arms and noiseless drum. 
Now whispered curses, low and deep, 
Around the holy temple creep ; 
The gate is burst; a ruffian band 
Bush in, and savagely demand, 
With brutal voice and oath profane, 
The startled boy for exile's chain. 

The mother sprang with gesture wild, 
And to her bosom clasped her child ; 
Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, 
Shouted with fearful energy, 
" Back, ruffians, back ! nor dare to tread 
Too near the body of my dead ; 
Nor touch the living boy; I stand 
Between him and your lawless band. 



92 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, 

With Russia's heaviest iron bands, 

And drag me to Siberia's wild 

To perish, if 'twill save my child ! " 

" Peace, woman, peace ! " the leader cried, 

Tearing the pale boy from her side, 

And in his ruffian grasp he bore 

His victim to the temple door. 

" One moment ! " shrieked the mother; "one !" 

Will land or gold redeem my son ? 

Take heritage, take name, take all, 

But leave him free from Russian thrall ! 

Take these ! " and her white arms and hands 

She stripped of rings and diamond bands, 

And tore from braids of long black hair 

The gems that gleamed like starlight there; 

Her cross of blazing rubies, last, 

Down at the Russian's feet she cast. 

He stooped to seize the glittering store ; — 

Up springing from the marble floor, 

The mother, with a cry of joy, 

Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. 

But no ! the Russian's iron grasp 

Again undid the mother's clasp. 

Forward she fell, with one long cry 

Of more than mortal agony. 

But the brave child is roused at length, 

And, breaking from the Russian's hold, 
He stands, a giant in the strength 

Of his young spirit, tierce and bold. 
Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, 

So blue, and yet so bright, 
Seems kindled from the eternal sky, 

So brilliant is its light. 
His curling lips and crimson cheeks 
Foretell the thought before he speaks; 
With a full voice of proud command 
He turned upon the wondering band: 
" Ye hold me not ! no ! no, nor can ; 
This hour has made the boy a man, 



THE LAWREXCE RECITER. £3 

I knelt before my slaughtered sire, 
Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. 

I wept upon bis marble brow, 

Yes, wept ! T was a child ; but now 

My noble mother, on her knee, 

Hath done the work of years for me ! n 

He drew aside his broidered vest, 

And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, 

The jewelled haft of poniard bright 

Glittered a moment on the sight. 

"Ha! start ye back ? Fool! coward! knave! 

Think }^e my noble father's glaive 

Would drink the life-blood of a slave? 

The pearls that on the handle flame 

Would blush to rubies in their shame; 

The blade would quiver in my breast 

Ashamed of such ignoble rest. 

No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, 

And fling him back a boy's disdain !" 

A moment, and the funeral light 
Flashed on the jewelled weapon bright; 
Another, and his young heart's blood 
Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. 
Quick to his mother's side he sprang, 
And on the air his clear voice rang: 

II Up, mother, up ! I'm free ! I'm free ! 
The choice was death or slavery. 

Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! 
His freedom is forever won ; 
And now he waits one holy kiss 
To bear li is father home in bliss, 
One last embrace, one blessing, — one! 
To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. 
What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel 
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? 
Speak, ii, other, speak! Lift up thy head! 
What! silent still? Then art thou dead! 

■ Great God, 1 thank thee! Mother, I 

Rejoice with thee. — and thus — to die." 
One long, deep breath, and his pate head 
Lay on his mother's bosom, — dead. 



94 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

"RAMON." 

(bret harte.) 
[El Refugio Mine, Northern Mexico, 1874.] 

Drunk and senseless in his place, 

Prone and sprawling on his face, 
More like brute than any man alive or dead — 

By his great pump out of gear, 

Lay the peon engineer, 

Waking only just to hear, 
Overhead, 

Angry tones that called his name, 

Oaths and cries of bitter blame — 
Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled! 

"To the man who'll bring to me," 

Cried Intendant Harry Lee, — 
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, 

" Bring the sot alive or dead, 

I will give to him," he said, 

"Fifteen hundred pesos down, 

Just to see the rascal's crown 
Underneath this heel of mine; 
Since but death 

Deserves the man whose deed, 

Be it vice or want of heed, 

Stops the pumps that gave us breath — 

Stops the pumps that suck the death 
From the poisoned lower levels of the mine ! " 

"No one answered, for a cry 
From the shaft rose up on high ; 
And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, 
Came the miners each, the bolder 
Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, 
Grappling, clinging to their hold, or 
Letting go, 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 95 

As the weaker gasped and fell 
From the ladder to the well — 
To the poisoned pit of hell 
Down below ! 

" To the man who sets them free," 

Cried the foreman, Harry Lee — 
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,— 

" Brings them out and sets them free, 

I will give the man/' said he, 

" Twice that sum, who with a rope 

Face to face with Death shall cope, 

Let him come who dares to hope !" 

" Hold your peace ! " some one replied, 

Standing by the foreman's side ; 
" There has one already gone, whoe'er he be ! w 

Then they held their breath with awe, 

Pulling on the rope and saw 

Fainting figures reappear, 

On the black rope swinging clear, 
Fastened by some skilful hand from below; 

Till a score the level gained, 

And but one alone remained — 

He the hero and the last, 

He whose skilful hand made fast 
The long life that brought them back to hope and cheer. 

Haggard, gasping, down dropped he 
At the feet of Harry Lee — 
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine : 
" I have come," he gasped " to claim 
Both rewards. Senor, my name 

Is Ramon ! 
I'm the drunken engineer — 
I'm the coward, Senor" — Here 
He fell over, by that sign 

Dead as stone. 



In the prosecution of a virtuous enterprise, a brave man 
despises danger and difficulty. 



96 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 



BABY'S STOCKING. 

Hang up the baby's stocking, 

Be sure you don't forget 
The dear little dimpled darling, 

She ne'er saw Christmas yet, 
But I've told her all about it, 

And she opened her big blue eyes 
I'm sure she understands it 

She looked so funny and wise. 

Dear! what a tiny stocking! 

It doesn't take much to hold 
Such little pink toes as baby's, 

Away from the frost and cold. 
But then for the baby's Christmas, 

It would never do at all ! 
Why, Santa wouldn't be looking 

For anything half so small. 

I'll tell you what we can do — ■ 

I've thought of the very best plan- 
I'll borrow a stocking of grandma, 

The longest that ever I can : 
You'll hang it by mine, dear mother, 

Right here, in the corner, so, 
And write a letter to Santa, 

And fasten it on the toe. 

Write, " This is the baby's stocking, 

That hangs in the corner, here : 
You never have seen her Santa, 

For she only came this 3 r ear; 
But she's the blessedest darling ! 

And, Santa, before you go, 
Just cram her stocking with goodies, 

From the top clean down to the toe." 



I shall know but one country. I was bom an American j 
I live an American; I shall die an American. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 97 

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA. 

(ELIJAH KELLOGG.) 

It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, 
returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace 
with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an extent hitherto 
unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of rev- 
elry had died away ; the roar of the lion had ceased ; the 
last loiterer had retired from the banquet ; and the lights 
in the palace of the victor were extinguished. 

The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered 
the dew-drops on the corslet of the Roman sentinel, and 
tipped the dark waters of the Vulturnus with a wavy, 
tremulous light. No sound was heard save the last sob of 
some retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles 
of the beach; and then all was still as the breast when 
the spirit has departed. 

In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of 
gladiators were assembled, — their muscles still knotted 
with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, the 
scowl of battle yet lingering on their brows, — when Spar- 
tacus. starting forth from amid the throng, thus addressed 
them : 

"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, 
who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every 
shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could 
furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be 
one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or 
private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him 
stand forth, and say it. If there be three in all your com- 
pany dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. 

" And yet, I was not always thus, — a hired butcher, a 
savage chief of still more savage men ! My ancestors 
came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad 
rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran 
quiet as the brooks by which I sported: and when, at 
noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played 
upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a 
neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks 
to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. 
7 



98 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

"One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were 
all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, 
my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and 
Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spar- 
tans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole 
army. I did not then know what war was ; but my cheeks 
burned, I knew not why, and I clasped the knees of that 
venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off 
my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me 
go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage 
wars. 

" That very night, the Romans landed on our coast. I 
saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the 
hoof of the war-horse ; the bleeding body of my father flung 
amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling ! To-day I 
killed a man in the arena; and when I broke his helmet- 
clasps, behold ! he was my friend. He knew me, — smiled 
faintly, — -gasped, — and died ; — the same sweet smile upon 
his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, 
we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, 
and bear them home in childish triumph. 

"I told the pretor that the dead man had been my 
friend, generous and brave; and I begged that I might 
bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn 
over its ashes. Ay! upon my knees, amid the dust and 
blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the 
assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they 
call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming 
it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn 
pale and tremble at the sight of that piece of bleeding 
clay ! And the pretor drew back as if I were pollution, and 
sternly said, — ' Let the carrion rot ; there are no noble 
men but Romans ! ' And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, 
and so must I, die like dogs. 

" Rome ! Rome ! thou hast been a tender nurse to me ! 
Ay, thou hast given, to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd 
lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, 
muscles of iron and a heart of flint: taught him to drive 
the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, 
and warm it in the marrow of his foe ! — to gaze into the 
glaring eye-balls of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a 
boy upon a laughing girl ! And he shall pay thee back, 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 99 

till the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its 
deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled ! 

" Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! The strength 
of brass is in 3 r our toughened sinews ; but to-morrow some 
Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly 
locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and 
bet his sesterces upon your blood ! Hark ! hear ye yon 
lion roaring in his den ? ; Tis three days since he tasted 
flesh ; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours, — 
and a dainty meal for him ye will be ! 

" If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen, wait- 
ing for the butcher's knife: if ye are men, — follow me! 
strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and 
there do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermopylae ! 
Is Sparta dead ? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your 
veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored 
hound beneath his master's lash ? comrades ! warriors 1 
Thracians !— if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves 5 
if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors ; if 
we must die, let us die under the open sky, by the bright 
waters, in noble, honorable battle ! ,; 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

(ALFRED TENNYSON.) 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of death 

Rode the six hundred. 
"Forward the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns ! J? he said. 
Into the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
Was there a man dismayed? 
Not though the soldiers knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 



100 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 

Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of death, 
Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them, 

Volleyed and thundered: 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well : 
Into the jaws of death, 
Into the mouth of hell, 

Kode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sab'ring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered: 
Plunged in the battery smoke, 
Right through the line they broke: 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from The saber-stroke, 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back — but not, 

!Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered: 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
"While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well, 
Came through the jaws of death, 
Back from the mouth of hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

"When can their glory fade? 
O, the wild charge they made ! 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 1C1 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 



BATTLE OF FONTENOY. 

(THOMAS DAVIS.) 

Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column 

failed, 
And twice the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain 

assailed ; 
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking 

battery, 
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch 

auxiliary. 
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers 

burst, 
The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and 

dispersed. 
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, 
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride ! 
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at 

eventide. 

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, — 
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at 

their head ; 
Steady they step adown the slope — steady they climb the 

hill; 
Steady they load — steady they fire, moving right onward 

still, 
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace 

blast, 
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets show- 
ering fast ; 
And on the open plain above they rose and kept their 

course, 
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile 

force, 



1 102 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their 

ranks, 
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's 

ocean banks. 

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush 

round ; 
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the 

ground ; 
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they 

marched and fired — 
Fast from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. 
"Push on, my household cavalry;" King Louis madly 

cried ; 
To death they rush, but rude their shock — not unavenged 

they died. 
On through the camp the column trod — King Louis turns 

his rein : 
u Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, " the Irish troops 

remain ; " 
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, 
Were not these exiles ready then, — fresh, vehement, and 

true. 

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are 

your Saxon foes ! " 
The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes ! 
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who' re wont to be 

so gay, 
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts. 

to-day — 
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could 

dry, 
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's 

parting cry, 
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country 

overthrown, — 
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, 
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles 

were. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 103 

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he com- 
mands, 
''Fix bayonets — Charge!" Like mountain-storm, rush on 

these fiery bands. 
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys 

grow, 
Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a 

gallant show. 
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle 

wind — 
Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like rocks, the men 

behind ! 
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the 

surging smoke, 
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong 

Irish broke. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza! 
"Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sasse- 

nagh ! " 
Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with' hunger's 

Pang, . b - 

Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang; 
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are 

filled with gore ; 
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled 

flags they tore ; 
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, ral- 
lied, staggered, fled — 
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with 

dead ; 
Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous 

wrack, 
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, 
With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought 

and won ! 



Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
The dark, un fathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 



104 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



THE OLD SOLDIER. 

i. 
Dost thou remember, Soldier, old and hoary, 
Days when we fought and conquer d side by side ? 
On fields of battle famous now in story, 
Where Britons triumphed and where Britons died. 
Dost thou remember all our old campaigning, 
O'er many a field of Portugal and Spain ? 
Of our old comrades few are now remaining — 
How many sleep upon the bloody plain ! 

ii. 
Dost thou remember all those marches weary 
From gathering foes to reach Corunna's shore, 
Who can forget that midnight sad and dreary, 
When in his grave we laid the noble Moore ! 
But ere he died our General heard us cheering, 
And saw us charge with victory's flag unfurled; 
And then he slept, without his ever fearing 
For British soldiers conquering o'er the W 7 orld. 

in. 

Kememb'rest thou the bloody Albuhera! 

The deadly breach in Badajoz's walls ! 

Victoria ! Salamanca ! Talavera ! 

Till Eoncesvalles echoed to our balls ! 

Ha ! how we drove the Frenchmen all before us, 

As foam is driven before the stormy breeze ! 

We fought right on, with conquering banners o'er us, 

From Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees. 

IV. 

Those days are past, my soldier, old and hoary, 
But still the scars are on thy manly brow ; 
We both have shared tlie danger and the glory, 
Come let us share, the peace and comfort now. 
Come to my home, for thou hast not another. 
And dry those tears, for thou shalt beg no more; 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 105 

There, take this hand, and let us march together 
Down to the grave, when life's campaign is o'er! 
Take hand and heart, and let us march together 
Up to our home ! when life's campaign is o'er ! 



BUGLE SONG. 

(ALFRED TENNYSON.) 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying: 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying 

hark, hear! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, further going; 
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of El Hand faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



THE EIDE FKOM GHENT TO AIX. 

(ROBERT BROWNING.) 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 

"Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew 

"Speed !" echoed the wall to us galloping through 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 



106 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Not a word to eacli other ; we kept the great pace — 
Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place : 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit — 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland, a whit. 

'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near 

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; 

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; 

At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, 

So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time ! " 

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track: 
And one eye's black intelligence — ever that glanced 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ; 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, " Stay spur! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her ; 
We'll remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Dal hem a dome-spire sprang white, 

And " Gallop," gasped Joris, u fur Aix is in sight ! " 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 707 

"How they'll greet us! " — and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall, 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer ; 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or 

good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking around, 
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news from 
Ghent. 



GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 

(will carletox.) 

John. 

I've worked in the field all day, a-plowin' the u stony 

streak ; M 
Fve scolded my team till I'm hoarse ; I've tramped till my 

legs are weak ; 
I've choked a dozen swears (so's not to tell Jane fibs), 
When the plow-p'int struck a stone and the handles 

punched my ribs. 

I've put my team in the barn and rubbed their sweaty 

coats ; 
I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats; 
And to see the way they eat makes me like eat in' feel, 

And Jane won't say to-night that I don't make out a meal. 



108 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Well said ! the door is locked! but here she's left the key, 
Under the step, in a place known only to her and me; 
I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's hustled off pell- 
mell ; 
But here on the table's a note and probably this will telL 

Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray! 
The letter it says, " Good-bye. for I'm a-going away; 
I've lived with you six months, John, and so far I've been 

true ; 
But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer man than 

you." 

A han'somer man than me ! Why, that ain't much to say; 
There's han'somer men than me go past here every day. 
There's han'somer men than me — I ain't of the han'some 

kind ; 
But a louen'er man than I was, I guess she'll never find. 

Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings! 
May the words of love I've spoken be changed to scorpion 

stings ! 
Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of 

doubt, 
And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart's 

blood out ! 

Curse her; curse her! say I, she'll some time rue this day; 
She'll some time learn that hate is a game that two can 

play; 
And long before she dies she'll grieve she ever was born, 
And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to 

scorn. 

As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a time when she 
Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer man than me; 
And there'll be a time when he will find, as others do, 
That she who is false to one, can be the same with two. 

And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes ^row dim, 
And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him, 
She'll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count 

the cost ; 
And then she'll see things clear, and know what she has 

lost. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 109 

And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind, 
And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind ; 
And maybe she'll sometimes long for me — for me — but no ! 
I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so. 



And yet in her girlish heart there was some thin' or other 

she had 
That fastened a man to her, and wasn't entirely bad ; 
And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn't last; 
But I mustn't think of these things — I've buried 'em in 

the past. 

I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter 

worse ; 
She'll have trouble enough ; she shall not have my curse; 
But I'll live a life so square — and I well know that I can — 
That she always will sorry be that she went with that 

han'somer man. 

Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my poor eyes blur ; 

It seems, when I look at that, as if 'twas holdin' her. 

And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week- 
day hat, 

And yonder's her weddin' gown : I wonder she didn't 
take that. 

'Twas only this mornin' she came and called me her "dear- 
est dear," 
And said 1 was makin' for her a regular paradise here; 

God ! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell, 
Before you pitch him in just keep him in Heaven a spell! 

Good-bye ! I wish that death had severed us two apart. 
You've lost a worshiper here, you've crushed a l<»viir heart. 
I'll worship no woman again; but 1 guess I'll learn to 

And kneel as you used to kneel, before you run away. 

And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to 

bear, 
And if I thought I had some little influence there, 

1 would pray that I might be, if it only could be so, 
zVs happy and gay as 1 was a half an hour ago. 



110 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Jane (entering). 

Why, John, what a litter here ! youVe thrown things all 

around ! 
Come, what's the matter now? and what have you lost or 

found ? 
And here's my father here, a-waiting for supper, too ; 
I've been a riding with him — he's that "han'somer man 

than you." 

Ha ! ha ! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on, 
And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John. 
Why, John, you look so strange ! come, what has crossed 

your track ? 
I was only a-joking, you know — I'm willing to take it back. 

John {aside). 

Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter cream! 
It seems as if I'd awoke from a mighty ticklish dream ! 
And I think she " smells a rat," for she smiles at me so 

queer, 
I hope she don't; good gracious! I hope that they didn't 

hear ! 

'Twas one of her practical drives, she thought I'd under- 
stand ! 

But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the 
land. 

But one thing's settled with me — to appreciate Heaven 
well, 

'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell. 



AN OLD STORY TOLD ANEW. 

A story, my pet? About Puss and her mittens, 
Or the dear little Babes that were lost in the Wood, 

The greedy old Giant that lived on the Bean-stalk, 

Or the Wolf in the night-cap and poor Bading-Hood ? 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. Ill 

A new story! Ah, little golden-haired prattler, 
Other lips will too soon make an old story new 

Let papa's be the first. Nestle close while he tells you 
A strange fairy story, both wond'rous and true : 

There was once on a time, as the story books tell us, 

A fair little maiden, with eyes like your own, 
With ringlets whose sheen mocked the gold of the sunset, 

And voice like the song-bird's first tremulous tone. 
She lived in a land full of sunshine and flowers — 

The "Glen of sweet Girlhood/' 'twas called, I am told — 
And all the good fairies had dowered her richly 

With wealth — fairy wealth — neither greenbacks nor 
gold. 

One evening the moonbeams were silvering the hillside 

(Such a magical moon will shine sometime for you), 
And the fairies were dancing in rings on the meadows — 

Some rocking in rose-leaves — some sipping the dew. 
This little maid, weary of mirth and of pleasure, 

Strolled off by the brooklet that bordered the glen, 
Forgetful the fairies had warned her — beyond it 

There dwelt those dread monsters, the terrible Men I 

The Men — dreadful creatures— with coarse, hairy faces, 

Their voices were loud as the storm in its wrath, 
Their mouths breathed forth smoke like the burning vol- 
cano, 

Their feet crushed each flower chat sprung in their path. 
Alas for the warning ! The moonbeams had silvered 

The mist on the shores and a path o'er the stream, 
And just by the bank rocked a fairy -like shallop, 

With a steersman more fair than a poet's first dream. 

His wings were as white as the swan's snow}' pinion, 

His voice was as sweet as the coo of a dove, 
His e} r es two twin stars he had stolen from Heaven, 

His name (don't forget it, my pet) it is Love. 
He smiled such a smile, like the sun to the dewdrop. 

"Come sail with me, sweet one: the moonlight is clear, 
The winds are all hushed, and the waves are all sleeping; 

My shallop is safe ; there is nothing to fear. 



112 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

"We will go where the nightingale sings in the starlight, 

To hanks where the roses bloom crimson and sweet; 
The zephyrs shall whisper their soft, perfumed secrets, 

And silver waves ripple in joy at thy feet. 
Come, come to the land where the rainbow, descending, 

Links dull, sober earth to the heaven above. 
Come, sweet one ! " Alas ! the maiden stepped into the 
shallop, 

And o'er the bright waters went sailing with Love ! 

Now listen, ray pet, to the terrible sequel — 

Beware of this traitorous Love while you can. 
This poor fairy maiden he seized as a captive, 

And sold her, in chains, to a terrible Man, 
To work for him, make for him, mend for him only, 

Forever and ever and ever again. 
There's a slave trade as yet — e'en the papers maintain it — 

Where Love is the trader and deals with the men. 

Did she die ? No, indeed. Fairy maidens are sturdy, 

And of a bad bargain they wisely make best. 
The Man — well, perhaps was not totally savage, 

And soon something else nestled close to her breast — 
A bright-winged birdie, that Love caught in cloudland, 

And brought to make peace — the sly rogue — I suppose. 
A poll, or canary? Well, that I can't tell you. 

There ! mamma is laughing. Go ask her. She knows. 



THE CURSE OF REGULUS. 

The palaces and domes of Carthage were burning with 
the splendors of noon, and the blue waves of her harbor 
were rolling and gleaming in the gorgeous sunlight. An 
attentive ear could catch a low murmur, sounding from 
the centre of the city, which seemed like the moaning of 
the wind before a tempest. And well it might. The 
whole people of Carthage, startled, astounded by the report 
that Hi gulus had returned, were pouring, a mighty tide, 
into the great square before the Senate House. There 
were mothers in that throng, whose captive sons were 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 113 

groaning in Roman fetters ; maidens, whose lovers were 
dying in the distant dungeons of Rome ; gray-haired men 
and matrons, whom Roman steel had made childless; men, 
who were seeing their country's life crushed out by Roman 
power; and with wild voices, cursing and groaning, the 
vast throng gave vent to the rage, the hate, the anguish of 
long years. 

Calm and unmoved as the marble walls around him, 
stood Regulus, the Roman ! He stretched his arm over 
the surging crowd with a gesture as proudly imperious, as 
though he stood at the head of his own gleaming cohorts. 
Before that silent command the tumult ceased — the half- 
uttered execration died upon the lip — so intense was the 
silence that the clank of the captive's brazen manacles 
smote sharp on every ear, as he thus addressed them: 

"Ye doubtless thought, judging of Roman virtue by 
your own, that I would break my plighted faith, rather 
than by returning, and leaving your sons and brothers to 
rot in Roman dungeons, to meet your vengeance. Well, I 
could give reasons for this return, foolish and inexplicable 
as it seems to you; I could speak of yearnings after 
immortality — of those eternal principles in whose pure 
light a patriot's death is glorious, a thing to be desired; 
but, by great Jove! I should debase myself to dwell on 
such high themes to you. If the bright blood which feeds 
my heart were like the slimy ooze that stagnates in your 
veins, I should have remained at Rome, saved my life and 
broken my oath. If, then, you ask, why I have come 
back, to let you work your will on this poor body which I 
esteem but as the rags that cover it, — enough reply for you, 
it is because I am a Roman ! As such, here in your very 
capital I defy you ! What I have done, ye never can 
undo ; what ye may do, I care not. Since first my young 
arm knew how to wield a Roman sword, have I not routed 
your armies, burned your towns, and dragged your gen- 
erals at my chariot wheels? And do ye now expect to 
see me cower and whine with dread of Carthaginian 
vengeance? Compared to that fierce mental strife which 
my heart has just passed through at Rome, the piercing 
of this flesh, the rending of these sinews, would be but 
sport to me. 

" Venerable senators, with trembling voices and out- 
• S 



114 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

stretched hands, besought me to return no more to Car- 
thage. The generous people, with loud wailing, and 
wildly-tossing gestures, bade me stay. The voice of a 
beloved mother, — -her withered hands beating her breast, 
her gray hairs streaming in the wind, tears flowing down 
her furrowed cheeks — praying me not to leave her in her 
lonely and helpless old age, is still sounding in my ears. 
Compared to anguish like this, the paltry torments you 
have in store is as the murmur of the meadow brook to 
the wild tumult of the mountain storm. Go ! bring your 
threatened tortures ! The woes I see impending over this 
fated city will be enough to sweeten death, though every 
nerve should tingle with its agony. I die — but mine shall 
be the triumph ; yours the untold desolation. For every 
drop of blood that falls from my veins, your own shall 
pour in torrents ! Wo, unto thee, Carthage ! I see thy 
homes and temples all in flames, thy citizens in terror, 
thy women wailing for the dead. Proud city! thou art 
doomed ! the curse of Jove, a living, lasting curse is on 
thee ! The hungry waves shall lick the golden gates of thy 
rich palaces, and every brook run crimson to the sea. 
Rome, with bloody hand, shall sweep thy heart-strings, 
and- all thy homes shall howl in wild response of anguish 
to her touch. Proud mistress of the sea, disrobed, un- 
crowned and scourged — thus again do I devote thee to 
the infernal gods ! 

Now, bring forth your tortures ! Slaves ! while ye tear 
this quivering flesh, remember how often Regulus has 
beaten your armies and humbled your pride. Cut as he 
would have carved you! Burn deep as his curse! 



SOCRATES SNOOKS. 

Mister Socrates Snooks, a lord of creation, 
The second time entered the married relation: 
Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, 
And they thought him the happiest man in the land. 
But scarce had the hotfeymoon passed o'er his head, 
When, one morning, to Xantippe, Socrates said, 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 115 

"I think, for a man of my standing in life, 
This house is too small, as I now have a wife: 
So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey 
Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy." 

" Now Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied, 

"I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd ; 

Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, 

Say, our cow house, our barn yard, our pig pen." 

" By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please 

Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." 

" Say our" Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. 

u I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age ! " 

Oh, woman ! though only a part of man's rib, 

If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib, 

Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you, 

You are certain to prove the best man of the two. 

In the following case this was certainly true; 

For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe, 

And laying about her, all sides at random, 

The adage was verified — " Nil desperandum." 

Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain, 
To ward off the blows which descended like rain- 
Concluding that valor's best part was discretion — 
Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian : 
But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid, 
Converted the siege into a blockade. 

At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, 

He concluded 'twas useless to strive against fate : 

And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, 

Said, "My dear, may we come out from under our bed?" 

" Hah! hah!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Socrates Snooks, 

I perceive }^ou agree to my terms by your looks : 

Now Socrates — hear me — from this happy hour, 

If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 

'Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to church, 

He chanced for a clean pair of trowsers to search: 

Having found them, he asked, with a few nervous twitch*^ 

"My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches? 11 



116 THS LAWRENCE RECITER* 

THE VAGABONDS, 
(j. t. Trowbridge). 

We are two travelers. Roger and I. 

Roger's my dog : — come here, you scamp ! 
Jump for the gentlemen, — mind your eye! 

Over the table, — look out for the lamp ! — 
The rogue is growing a little old; 

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, 
And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 

And ate and drank — and starved together. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
Afire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow! 

The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 

(This out-door business is bad for strings,) 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, 

And Roger and I set up for kings ! 

No, thank ye, sir. — I never drink; 

Roger and 1 are exceedingly moral, — 
Aren't we, Roger? — see him wink! — 

Well, something hot, then, — we won't quarrel. 
He's thirsty, too, — see him nod his head? 

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ! 
;He understands every word that's said, — 

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by, through thick and thin ; 

And this old coat, with its empty- pockets, 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 117 

There isn't another creature living 

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, 

To such a miserable, thankless master! 
No, sir! — see him wag his tail and grin ! 

By George ! it makes my old eyes water! 
That is, there's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow. But no matter ! 



We'll have some music, if you're willing. 

And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough is, sir !) 
Shall march a little. — Start, you villain ! 

Stand straight ! 'Bout face ! Salute your officer ! 
Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle ! 

(Some dogs have arms, you see ! ) Now hold your 
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, 

To aid a poor old patriot soldier ! 

i 

March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes, 

When he stands up to hear his sentence. 
Now tell us how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yelps. — that's five; he's mighty knowing; 

The night's before us, fill the glasses! — 
Quick, sir! I'm ill, — my brain is going! — 

Some brandy ! — thank you ! — there ! — it passes! 

Why not reform ? That's easily said ; 

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
That my poor stomach's past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink ; — - 

The same old story ; you know how it ends. 



118 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

If you could have seen these classic features,— 
You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then 

Such a burning libel on God's creatures : 
I was one of your handsome men. 

If you had seen her, so fair and young, 

Whose head was happy on this breast ! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed 
That ever I, sir, should be strajdng 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Bagged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 

She's married since, — a parson's wife : 

'Twas better for her that we should part,— 
Better the soberest, prosiest life, 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and spent 

On the dusty road, a carriage stopped: 
But little she dreamed, as on she went, 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ! 

You've set me talking, sir ; I'm sorry; 

It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing? you find it strange? 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 

. 'Twas well she died before Do you know 

If the happy spirits of heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder, his he such a lumpish, leaden, 

Aching thing, in place of a heart? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, 

No doubt, remembering things that were, — 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 119 

I'm better now ; that glass was warming, — 

You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street. — 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, 
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink \ — 

The sooner, the better for Roger and me ! 



"BAY BILLY." 
(frank k. gassaway.) 

You may talk of horses of renown, 
What Goldsmith Maid has done, 

How Dexter cut the seconds down, 
And Fellowcraft's great run. 

Would you hear about a horse that once 
A mighty battle won ? 

'Twas the last fight at Fredericksburg — 

Perhaps the day you reck, 
Our boys, the Twenty-Second Maine, 

Kept Early's men in check. 
Just where Wade Hampton boomed away 

The fight went neck and neck. 

All day we held the weaker wing, 

And held it with a will ; 
Five several stubborn times we charged: 

The battery on the hill, 
And five times beaten back, re-formed, 

And kept our columns still. 

At last from out the centre fight 

Spurred up a General's Aid. 
" That battery must silenced be ! n 

He cried, as past he sped. 
Our Colonel simply touched his cap, 

And then, with measured tread, 



120 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

To lead the crouching line once more 

The grand old fellow came. 
No wounded man but raised his head 

And strove to gasp his name. 
And those who could not speak nor stir, 

" God blessed him" just the same. 

For he was all the world to us, 

That hero gray and grim ; 
Eight well he knew that fearful slope 

We'd climb with none but him, 
Though while his white head led the way 

We'd charge hell's portals in. 

This time we were not half way up, 
When, midst the storm of shell, 

Our leader, with his sword upraised, 
Beneath our bay'nets fell. 

And. as we bore him back, the foe 
Sec up a joyous yell. 

Our hearts went with him. Back we swept, 

And when the bugle said 
" Up, charge again ! " no man was there 

But hung his dogged head. 
« We've no one left to lead us now," 

'liie sullen soldiers said. 

Just then, before the laggard line 
The Colonel's horse we spied — • 

Bay Billy with his trappings on, 
His nostrils swelling wide, 

As though still on his gallant back 
The master sat astride. 

Bight royally he took the place 

That was of old his wont, 
And with a neigh, that seemed to say 

Above the battle's brunt, 
" How can the Twenty-Second charge 

If I am not in front ? " 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 121 

Like statues we stood rooted there, 

And gazed a little space ; 
Above that floating mane we missed 

The dear familiar face ; 
But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire 

And it gave us heart of grace. 

No bugle call could rouse us all 

As that brave sight had done. 
Down all the battered line we felt 

A lightning impulse run ; 
Up, up the hill we followed Bill, 

And captured every gun ! 

And when upon the conquered height 

Died out the battle's hum, 
Vainly 'mid living and the dead 

We sought our leader dumb, 
It seemed as if a spectre steed 

To win that day had come. 

And then the dusk and dew of night 

Fell softly o'er the plain, 
As though o'er man's dread work of death 

The angels wept again, 
And drew night's curtain gently round 

A thousand beds of pain. 

All night the surgeon's torches went 

The ghastty rows between — 
All night with solemn step I paced 

The torn and bloody green ; 
But who that fought in that big war 

Such dread sights have not seen ! 

At last the morning broke. The lark 

Sang in the merry skies, 
As if to e'en the sleepers there 

It bade wake, and arise ! 
Though naught but that last trump of all 

Could ope their heavy eyes. 



122 THE LAWKENCE RECITER. 

And then once more, with banners gay, 
Stretched out the long brigade ; 

Trimly upon the furrowed field 
The troops stood on parade. 

And bravely 'mid the ranks were closed 
The gaps the fight had made. 

Not half the Twenty-Second's men 
Were in their place that morn, 

And Corp'ral Dick, who yester-noon 
Stood six brave fellows on, 

Now touched my elbow in the ranks, 
For all between had gone. 

Ah ! who forgets that dreary hour 

When, as with misty eyes, 
To call the old familiar roll 

The solemn Sergeant tries — 
One feels that thumping of the heart 

As no prompt voice replies. 

And as in falt'ring tone and slow 
The last few names were said, 

Across the field some missing horse 
Toiled up with weary tread. 

It caught the Sergeant's eye, and quick 
Bay Billy's name was read. 

Yes ! there the old bay hero stood, 
All safe from battle's harms. 

And ere an order could be heard, 
Or the bugle's quick alarms, 

Down all the front, from end to end, 
The troops presented arms ! 

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth 
Could still our mighty cheer. 

And ever from that famous day, 
When rang the roll-call clear, 

Bay Billy's name was read, and then 
The whole line answered '"Here!" 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 123 
HOW "RUBY" PLAYED. 

(GEO. W. BAGBY.) 

Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes to hear Rubinstein, 
and gives the following description of his playing: 

Well, sir, he had the blamedest, biggest, catty-cornedest 
pianner you ever laid eyes on ; somethin' like a distracted 
billiard table on three legs. The lid was hoisted, and 
mighty well it was. If it hadn't been he'd a tore the 
entire inside clean out, and scattered 'em to the four winds 
of heaven. 

Played well? You bet he did; but don't interrupt me. 
When he first sit down, he 'peared to keer mighty little 
'bout playin', and wisht he hadn't come. He tweedle- 
leede'd a little on the treble, and twoodle-oodled some on 
the base — just foolin' and boxin' the thing's jaws for bem* 
in his way. And I says to a man settin' next to me says 
I: "What sort of fool playin' is that?" And he says, 
"Heish!" But presently his hands commenced chasm' 
one another up and down the keys, like a passel of rats 
scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was 
sweet, though, and reminded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' 
the wheel of a can Ay cage. 

"Now," I says to my neighbor, "he's showing off. He 
thinks he's a-doin' of it, but he ain't got no idee, no plan 
of nothin'. If he'd play me a tune of some kind or 
other I'd—" 

But my neighbor says "Heish!" very impatient. 

I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired of 
that foolishness, when I heard a little bird waking up 
away off in the woods, and call sleepy-like to his mate, 
and I looked up and see that Rubin was beginning to take 
some interest in his business, and I sit down again. It 
was the peep of day. The light came faint from the east, 
the breezes blowed gentle and fresh, some more birds 
waked up in the orchard, then some more in the trees near 
the house, and all begun sin gin' together. People began 
to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the 
first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms a leetle more, 
and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it 



121 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

was broad day; the sun fairly blazed, the birds sung like 
they'd split their little throats; all the leaves was moving 
and flash in' diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world 
was bright and happy as a king. Seemed to me like there 
was a good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a 
sick woman or child anywhere. It was a fine morn in'. 

And I says to my neighbor: "That's music, that is." 

But he glared at me like he'd like to cut my throat. 

Presently the wind turned; it began to thicken up, and 
a kind of gray mist came over things; I got low-spirited 
directly. Then a silver rain begun to fall. I could see 
the drops touch the ground ; some flashed up like long pearl 
ear-rings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies. Ifc 
was pretty but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered 
themselves into long strands and necklaces, and then they 
melted into thin silver streams, running between golden 
gravels, and then the streams joined each other at the 
bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed silent, 
except that you could kinder see the music, specially when 
the bushes on the banks moved as the music went along 
down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the meadow. 
But the sun didn't shine, nor the birds sing ; it was a 
foggy day, but not cold. 

The most curious thing was the little white angel-boy, 
like you see in pictures, that run ahead of the music 
brook and led it on, and on, away out of the world, where 
no man ever was, certain. I could see that boy just as 
plain as I see you. Then the moonlight came, without 
any sunset, and shone on the graveyards, where some few 
ghosts lifted their hands and went over the wall, and 
between the black, sharp-top trees splendid marble houses 
rose up, with fine ladies in the lit-up windows, and men 
that loved 'em, but could never get a-nigh 'em, who played 
on guitars under the trees, and made me that miserable I 
could have cried, because I wanted to love somebody, I 
don't know who, better than the men with the guitars did. 

Then the sun went down, it got dark, the wind moaned 
and wept like a lost child for its dead mother, and I could 
a got up then and there and preached a better sermon than 
any I ever listened to. There wasn't a thing in the world 
left to live for, not a blamed thing, and yet i didn't want 
the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 125 

than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't 
understand it. 1 hung my head and pulled out my hand- 
kerchief, and bio wed my nose loud to keep me from cry in'. 
My eyes is weak anyway; I didn't want anybody to be 
a-gazin' at me a-snivlin', and it's nobody's business what I 
do with my nose. It's mine. But some several glared at 
me mad as blazes. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin 
changed his tune. He ripped out and he rared, he tipped 
and he tared, he pranced and he charged like the grand 
entry at a circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in the 
house was turned on at once, things got so bright, and I 
hilt up my head, ready to look at any man in the face, and 
not afraid of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, 
and a big ball all goin' on at the same time. He lit into 
them keys like a thousand of brick ; he give 'em no rest 
day or night; he set every livin' joint in me a-goin', and 
not bein' able to stand it no longer, I jumped spang onto 
my seat, and just hollered : 

" Go it, my Rube ! " 

Every blamed man, woman, and child in the house riz 
on me, and shouted, " Put him out ! put him out !" 

" Put your great grandmother's grizzly gray greenish 
cat into the middle of next month!" I says. "Tech me 
if you dare ! I paid my money and you just come a-nigh 



me 



t» 



With that some several policemen ran up, and I had to 
simmer down. But I would a fit any fool that laid hands 
on me, for I was bound to hear Rubin out or die. 

He had changed his tune again. He hop-light ladies 
and tip-toed tine from end to end of the key-board. He 
played soft and low and solemn. 1 heard the church bells 
over the hills. The candles of heaven was lit one by one; 
I saw the stars rise. The great organ of eternity began 
to play from the world's end to the world's end and all the 
angels went to prayers. * * ** * Then the music 
changed to water, full of feeling that couldn't be thought, 
and begun to drop — drip, drop-drip, drop, clear and sv eet 
like tears of joy falling into a lake of glory. It was 
sweeter than that. It was as sweet as a sweet-heart sweet- 
ened with white sugar mixt with powdered silver and see 1 
diamonds. It was too sweet. 1 tell you the audience 
cheered. Kubin he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, 



126 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

"Much obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't interrup' 
me." 

He stopt a moment or two to ketch breath. Then he 
got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he shoved 
up his sleeve, he opened his coat tails a leetle further, he 
drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for 
that old pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, 
he pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched 
her cheeks until she fairly yelled. He knockt her down 
and he stampt on her shameful. She bellowed like a bull, 
she bleated like a calf, she howled like a hound, she 
squealed like a pig, she shrieked like a rat, and then he 
would'nt let her up. He run a quarter stretch down the 
low grounds of the base, till he got clean in the bowels of 
the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, 
through the hollows and caves of perdition ; and then he 
fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got way out 
of the treble into the clouds, whar the notes was finer 
than the pints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear 
nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then he wouldn't 
let the old pianner go. He far'ard two'd, he crost over 
first gentleman, he chassade right and left, back to your 
places, he all hands'd aroun', ladies to the right, promenade 
all, in and out, here an'd there, back and forth, up and 
down, perpetual motion, double twisted and turned and 
tacked and tangled into forty-eleven thousand double 
bow-knots. 

By jinks ! it was a mixtery. And then he wouldn't let 
the old pianner go. He fecht up his right wing, he fecht 
up his left wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his 
reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by com- 
pany, by regiments, and by brigades. He opened his 
cannon — siege guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve 
pounders yonder — big guns, little guns, middle-sized guns, 
round shot, shells, shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, 
mines and magazines, every livin' battery and bomb 
a-goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights 
danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, the ceilin' come 
down, the sky slit, the ground rokt — heavens ami earth, 
creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, ninepenees, glory, ten- 
penny nails, Sampson in a 'simmon tree, Tump, Tompson 
in a tumbler cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-ooddle — ruddle-uddle- 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 127 

uddle-uddle — raddle-addle-addle-addle — riddle-iddle-iddle- 
iddle — reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle — p-r-r-r-rlank ! Bang ! ! 
lang ! perlang ! p-r-r-r-r-r ! ! Bang ! ! ! 

With that bang ! he lifted himself bodily into the a'r, 
and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten 
toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single soli- 
tary key on the pianner at the same time. The thing 
busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty- 
seven thousand five hundred and forty-two heme-demi- 
semi-quivers, and I know'd no mo." 

When I come to, I were under ground about twenty 
foot, in a place they call Oyster Bay, treatin' a Yankee 
that I had never laid eyes on before, and never expect to 
agin. Day was breakin' by the time I got to the St. 
Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge you my word I did not know 
my name. The man asked me the number of my room, 
and I told him, " Hot music on the half-shell for two ! " 

BEENAEDO DEL CAEPIO. 

(MRS. HEMANS.) 

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart 

of fire, 
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned 

sire; 
"I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive 

train, 
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — ! break my 

father's chain!" 

— " Eise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man 

this day! 
Mount thy good horse ; and thou and I will meet him on 

his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy 

speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glitter- 
ing band, 

With one that 'midst them stately rode, as leader in the 
land : 



123 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

"Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long 
to see." 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's 

hue came and went ; 
He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, 

dismounting, bent ; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took — 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped from his 

like lead! 
He looked up to the face above — the face was of the dead! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow was fixed 

and white : 
He met, at last, his father's eyes — but in them was no 

light ! 

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed — but who could 

paint that gaze? 
They hushed their very hearts that saw its horror and 

amaze; 
They might have chained him, as before that stony form 

he stood ; 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip 

the blood. 

" Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like 

childhood then : 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike 

men ! 
He thought on all his hopes, and all his young renown — 
He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat 

down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly 

mournful brow — 
"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword 

for, now ; 
My king is false — my hope betrayed ! My father — ! the 

worth, 
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth ! 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



129 



"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside 

thee, yet ! 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil 

had met ! 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then ; — for thee my 

fields were won ; 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou 

hadst no son ! " 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the 

monarch's rein, 
Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier's 

train ; 
And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war 

horse led, 
And sternly set them face to face — the king before the 

dead : — 

" Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to 

kiss ?— 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is 

this? 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — give answer, 

where are they? 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through 

this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put light ; — be still ! keep down 

thine ire! — 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth is not my 

sire : 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood 

was shed ! — 
Thou canst not ? — and a king ! — his dust be mountains on 

thy head." 

He loosed the steed — his slack hand fell ; — upon the silent 

face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from 

that sad place : 
His hope was crushed, bis after fate untold in martial 

strain : 
His banners led the spears no more, amidst the hills of 
9 Spain. 



130 THB LAWRENCE RECITER. 
VAT YOU PLEASE. 

(W. B. FOWLE.) 

Two Frenchmen, who had just come over, 

Half-starved but always gay, 

(No weasels ere were thinner,) 
Trudged up to town from Dover, 
Their slender store exhausted on the way, 

Extremely puzzled how to get a dinner. 
From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve, 

Our Frenchmen wandered on their expedition ; 
Great was their need, and sorely did they grieve, 

Stomach and pocket in the same condition. 
At length by mutual consent they parted, 
And different ways on the same errand started. 

Towards night, one Frenchman at a tavern door 

Stopped, entered, all the preparation saw ; 

The ready waiter at his elbow stands — 

" Sir, will you favor me with your commands, 

Roast goose or ducks, sir, choose you that or these ? " 

" Save, you are very kine, sare, vat you please" 

It was a glorious treat, pie, pudding, cheese and meat; 

At last the Frenchman, having eaten his fill, 

Prepared to go, when — "Here, sir, is your bill!" 

" 0, you are Bill — Veil, Mr. Bill, good-day!" 

i( My name is Tom, sir — you've this bill to pay."— 

11 Pay, pay, ma fox ! 

I call for notting sare, pardonnez moi ! 

You show to me the pooden, goose and sheeze, 

You ask me vat I eat — / tell you vat you please." 

The waiter, softened by his queer grimace, 

Could not help laughing in the Frenchman's face, 

And generously tore the bill in two, 

Forgave the hungry trick, and let him go. 

Our Frenchman's appetite subdued, 
Away he chaseed in a merry mood, 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER- 151 

And, turning round the corner of a street, 
His hungry countryman perchanced to meet, 
When, with a grin, 

He told how he had taken John Bull in. 
Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops, 
Makes his congee, and seeks this shop of shops, 
Entering, he seats himself as if at ease — 
"What will you have, sir ? " — " Vat you please. 

The waiter saw the joke, and slyly took 

A whip, and with a very gracious look 

Sought instantty the Frenchman's seat, 

11 What will you have, sir? " venturing to repeat — 

Our Frenchman, feeling sure of goose and cheese, 

With how and smile, quick answers — " Vat you please/" 

But scarcely had he let the sentence slip, 

When round his shoulders twines the pliant whip. 

u Save ! save ! ah misericorde ! parbleu ! 

dear, monsieur, what for you strike me? huh 

Vat for is dis ! " " Ah, don't you know ? 

That's Vat I please exactly ; now, sir, go ! 

Your friend, although I paid well for his funning, 

Deserves the goose he gained, sir, hy his cunning; 

But you, monsieur, without my dinner tasting, 

Are goose enough — and only want a basting" 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and dowa 

the street; 
The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is at her feet. 
The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp, 
By the struggling of the moonbeam, by £ig dicker of the 

lamp. 
The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north, 
But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketii forth. 
"Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright, 
And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest 

night. 



10O 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



With the little box of matches she could not sell all day, 
And the thin, thin tattered mantle the wind blows every 

way, 
She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom, — 
There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight in the 

room ; 
And children with grave faces are whispering one another 
Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother. 
But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak, 
No breath of little whispers comes warmly to her cheek. 

No little arms are round her: ah me ! that there should be, 
With so much happiness on earth, so much of misery! 
Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round, 
As laden boughs in autumn fling their ripe fruits to the 

ground. 
And the best love man can offer to the God of love, be 

sure, 
Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor. 
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on her way ; 
There's no one looketh out at her, there's no one bids her 

stay. 

Her home is cold and desolate ; no smile, no food, no fire, 
But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire. 
So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet, 
And she curleth up beneath her, for warmth, her little feet; 
And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky, 
And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high. 
She hears a clock strike slowly, up in a far church tower, 
With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight 
hour. 

And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell, 
And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's twilight 

fell ; 
Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child, 
Who was cradled in a manger, when winter was most wild; 
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and 

lone ; 
And she thought the song had told he was ever with his 

own; 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 133 

And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his, — 
"How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this!" 

Colder it grows, and colder, but she does not feel it now, 
For the pressure at her heart, and the weight upon her 

brow ; 
But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and 

bare, 
That she might look around her, and see if He were there. 
The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw 
It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two; 
And she could see folks seated at a table richly spread, 
With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread. 

She could smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what 

they did say, 
Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned 

away. 
She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see 
Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree. 
The branches were all laden with things that children prize, 
Bright gifts for boy and maiden, she saw them with her 

eyes, 
And she almost seemed to touch them, and to join the 

welcome shout, 
When darkness fell around her, for the little match was 

out. 

Another, yet another, she had tried — they will not light; 
Till all her little store she took, and struck with all her 

might : 
And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare, 
And she dreamed there stood a little child before her in 

the air. 
There were blood drops on his forehead, a spear-wound in 

his side, 
And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands sj^read 

wide ; 
And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had 

known 
Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow — ay, equal to her own. 



134 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas 

tree, 
Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen come 

with me ? " 
The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs 

swim, 
And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead 

mother's hymn : 
And she folded both her thin white hands, and turned 

from that bright board, 
And from the golden gifts, and said, "With thee, with 

thee, Lord ! " 
The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies 
On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen 

lies. 

In her scant and tattered garment, with her back against 

the wall, 
She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. 
They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they 

said, 
"It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead." 
The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from 

sin; 
Men said, " It was a bitter night ; would no one let her in ?" 
And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They 

could not see 
How much of happiness there was after that misery. 



HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S. 
(mary a. p. stansbuky.) 

On roofs and glittering turrets, one night, as the sun went 

down, 
The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled 

crown, 
And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their 

eyes, 
They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's, 

rise 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 135 

High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball, 
That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward 

fall ; 
First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor 

round, 
And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. 
The gently-gathering shadows shut out the waning light; 
The children prayed at their bedsides as they were wont 

each night ; 
The noise of the buyer and seller from the busy mart was 

gone, 
And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on. 

But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, 

For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling 
feet ; 

Men stared in each other's faces, thro' mingled fire and 
smoke, 

While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous, stroke on 
stroke. 

By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother 
fled, 

With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in name- 
less dread ; 

While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and cap- 
stone high, 

And planted their glaring banners against an inky sky. 

From the death that raged behind them, and the crush of 
ruin loud, 

To the great square of the city, were driven the surging 
crowd, 

Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery- 
flood, 

With its heavenward pointing finger the church of St. 
Michael's stood. 

But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail, 

A cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, 

On whose scorching wings updriven, a single flaming brand 

Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand. 

"Will it fade?" the whisper trembled from a thousand 
% whitening lips ; 

Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships. 



136 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

A baleful gleam, that brighter and ever brighter shone, 
Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady 

beacon grown. 
" Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave 

right hand, 
For the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning 

brand!" 
So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, 
But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke 

a word. 

Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the 

sky- 
Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his 
eye? 

Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sicken- 
ing height, 

Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at 
the sight? 

But see ! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his 
feet and his hands, 

And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath 
him, he stands ! 

Now once, and once only, they cheer him — a single tem- 
pestuous breath, 

And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like the 
stillness of death. 

Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of 
the fire, 

Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of 
the spire ; 

He stops ! Will he fall ? Lo ! for answer, a gleam like a 
meteor's track, 

And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand 
lies shattered and black ! 

Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quiver- 
ing air ; 

At the church door mayor and council wait with their feet 
on the stair, 

And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his 
hand — 

The unknown savior whose daring could compass a deed so 
grand. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 107 

But why does a sudden tremor seize on them as they gaze? 
And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and 

amaze ? 
He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his life 

to save, 
And the face of the unknown hero was the sable face 

of a slave ! 
With folded arms he was speaking in tones that were 

clear, not loud, 
And his eyes ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes 

of the crowd, 
" Ye may keep your gold, I scorn it ! but answer me, ye 

who can, 
If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a 

man I 

He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the 

women and men 
There were only sobs for answer, and the mayor called for 

a pen, 
And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran, 
And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out of its door 

a man. 



BUBDOCK'S GOAT. 

Last Monday afternoon the eleven Boblink boys sur- 
rounded and caught an enormous, shaggy, strong-smelling 
goat of the masculine gender, turned him loose in Bur- 
dock's garden, nailed up the gate, and then went home 
and flattened their eleven little noses against the back 
windows to watch for coming events. 

Before his goatship had spent three minutes in the 
garden, he had managed to make himself perfectly at 
home, pulled down the clothes-line, and devoured two lace 
collars, a pair of undersleeves, and a striped stocking, 
belonging to Mrs. Burdock, and was busily engaged sam- 
pling one of Burdocks shirts, when the servant girl came 
rushing out with a basket of clothes to hang up. 

"The saints preserve us!" she exclaimed, coming to a 



138 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

dead halt, and gazing open-mouthed at the goat, who was 
calmly munching away at the shirt. 

(i Shew, shew, shew, there ! " screamed the girl, setting 
down the basket, taking her skirts in both hands, and 
shaking them violently towards the intruder. 

Then the goat who evidently considered her movements 
in the light of a challenge, suddenly dropped his wicked 
old head, and darted at her with the force of an Erie 
locomotive; and just one minute later by the city-hall 
clock that girl had tumbled a back somersault over the 
clothes-basket, and was crawling away on her hands and 
knees in search of a place to die, accompanied by the goat, 
who was butting her unmercifully every third second. 

It is likely that he would have kept on butting her for 
the next two weeks, if Mrs. Burdock, who had been a 
witness of the unfortunate affair, had not armed herself 
with the family poker, and hurried to the rescue. 

" Merciful goodness, Anne ! do get up on your feet ! " 
she exclaimed, aiming a blow at the beast's head, and miss- 
ing it by a few of the shortest kind of inches. It was not 
repeated, owing to the goat suddenly rising up on his 
hind-feet, waltzing toward her, and striking her in the 
small of the back, hard enough to loosen her finger-nails, 
and destroy her faith in the blessed immortality. 

When Mrs. Burdock returned to her consciousness, she 
crawled out from behind the grindstone where she had 
been tossed, and made for the house ; stopping only once, 
when the goat came after, and butted her, head first, into 
the grape-arbor. 

Once inside the house, the door was locked, and the 
unfortunates sought the solitude of their own rooms, and 
such comfort as they could extract from rubbing and growl- 
ing; while the goat wandered about the garden like Satan 
in the Book of Job, seeking what he might devour; and 
the eleven little Boblink boys fairly hugged themselves 
with pleasure over the performance. 

By the time Burdock returned home that evening, and 
learned all the particulars from his arnica-soaked wife, the 
goat had eaten nearly all the week's washing, half the 
grape-vine, and one side out of the clothes-basket. 

" Why in thunder didn't you put him out, and not leave 
him there to destroy every thing? " he demanded angrily. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 139 

"Because he would'nt go, and I was not going to 
Btay there to he killed ; that's why," answered his wife 
excitedly. 

"Wouldn't fiddlesticks!" he exclaimed, making for the 
garden, followed by the entire family. 

"Get out of here, you thief!" he exclaimed as he came 
into the garden, and caught sight of the shaggy and 
highly-perfumed visitor. 

The goat bit off another mouthful of the basket, and 
regarded him with a mischievous twinkle of his eye. 

"You won't go, hey?" exclaimed Burdock, trying to 
kick a hole in the enemy's ribs. "I'll show you wheth — " 

The sentence was left unfinished, as the goat just then 
dropped his head on Burdock's shirt-bosom ; and before he 
could recover his equilibrium, he had been butted seven 
times in seven fresh spots, and was down on his knees, and 
crawling around in a very undignified manner, to the 
horror of the family, and the infinite glee of the eleven 
young Boblinks next door. 

"Look out he don't hurt you !" screamed Mrs. Burdock 
as the goat sent him flying into a sand-pile. 

When Burdock had got his bald head out of the sand 
he was mud all over his clothes, and tried to catch the 
brute by the horns, but desisted after he had lost two front 
teeth, and been rolled in the mud. 

" Don't make a living show of yourself before the neigh- 
bors ! " advised his wife. 

"Come in, pa, and let him be ! " begged his daughter. 

" Golly, dad, look out ! he is comin' agin ! " shouted his 
son enthusiastically. 

Mr. Burdock waxed profane, and swore three-story oaths 
in such rapid succession that his family held their breaths ; 
and a pious old lady, who lived in a house in the rear, shut 
up her windows, and sent out the cook for a policeman or 
a missionary. 

"Run for it, dad!" advised his son a moment later, 
when the goat's attention seemed to be turned away. 

Burdock sprang to his feet, and followed his offspring's 
suggestion. He was legging it in superb style, and the 
chances of his reaching the house seemed excellent, when 
the fragrant brute suddenly clapped on more steam, gained 
rapidly, and darting between his legs, capsized him into 
the ash-box. 



140 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

His family dragged him inside, another candidate for 
rubbing with arnica and a blessed haven of rest. 

The back of the house has been hermetically sealed ; 
and Burdock now proposes extending an invitation to the 
militia regiments of Boston to come down and practice 
marksmanship off the roof ; promising to furnish a live 
goat for a target, and a silver napkin-ring as the first 
prize. 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
(THOMAS hood.) 

One more unfortunate 

Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 

Gone to her death ! 
Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly — 

Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments, 
Clinging like cerements, 
Whilst the wave constantly 

Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly, 

Loving, not loathing! 

Touch her not scornfully ! 
Think of her mournfully, 

Gently and humanly— 
Not of the stains of her; 
All that remains of her 

Now, is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny, 
Into her mutiny, 

Rash ami undutiful; 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 141 

Still, for all slips of hers, — 

One of Eve's family, — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers, 

Oozing so clammily. 
Loop up her tresses, — 

Escaped from the comb, — 
Her fair auburn tresses, — 
Whilst wonderment guesses, 

Where was her home ? 

Who was her father? 

Who was her mother? 

Had she a sister ? 

Had she a brother? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other? 

Alas! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
Oh, it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 

Home she had none. 



Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly, 

Feelings had changed, — 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 

With many a light 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement, 
She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 



142 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch, 

Or the black, flowing river ; 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery, 

Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly, — 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran,— • 
Over the brink of it ! 
Picture it, — think of it 

Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 

Young and so fair ! 
Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
Stiffen too rigidly, 

Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them; 
And her eyes, close them, 

Staring so blindly ! — 
Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 

Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 143 

As if praying dumbly, 

Over her breast ! 
Owning her weakness, 

Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness, 

Her sins to her Saviour ! 



JANE CONQUEST. 

About the time of Christmas 

(Not many months ago), 
When the sky was black 
With wrath and rack, 

And the earth was white with snow, 
When loudly rang the tumult 
Of winds and waves, at strife, 

In her home by the sea, 

With her babe on her knee, 
Sat Harry Conquest's wife. 

And he was on the ocean, 

Although she knew not where, 

For never a lip 

Could tell of the ship, 
To lighten her heart's despair. 
And her babe was fading and dying ; 
The pulse in the tiny wrist 

Was all but still, 

And the brow was chill, 
And pale as the white sea mist. 

Jane Conquest's heart was hopeless ; 
She could only w r eep, and pray 

That the Shepherd mild 

Would take her child 
Without a pain away. 

The night was dark and darker, 
And the storm grew stronger still ; 
And buried in deep, 
And dreamless sleep, 
Lay the hamlet under the hill. 



144 THE LAWEENCE RECITER. 

The fire was dead on the hearthstone 
Within Jane Conquest's room, 

And still sat she, 

With her babe on her knee, 
At prayer amid the gloom. 
When, borne above the tempest, 
A sound fell on her ear, 

Thrilling her through, 

For well she knew 
'Twas the voice of mortal fear. 
And a light leaped in at the lattice, 
Sudden and swift and red 5 

Crimsoning all, 

The whited wall, 
And the floor, and the roof o'erhead. 

For one brief moment, heedless 
Of the babe upon her knee, 

With the frenzied start 

Of a frightened heart, 
Upon her feet rose she. 

And through the quaint old casement 
She looks upon the sea ; 

Thank God that the sight, 

She saw that night, 
So rare a sight should be ! 

Hemmed in by many a billow, 
With mad and foaming lip, 

A mile from shore, 

Or hardly more, 
She saw a gallant ship, 
Aflame from deck to topmast ; 
Aflame from stem to stern; 

For there seemed no speck, 

On all that wreck, 
Where the fierce fire did not burn: 
Till the night was like a sunset, 
And the sea like a sea of blood, 

And the rocks and shore 

Were bathed all o'er 
And drenched with the gory flood. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 145 

She looked and looked, till the terror 
Went creeping through every limb; 

And her breath came quick, 

And her heart grew sick, 
And her sight grew dizzy and dim; 
And her lips had lost their utterance, 
For she tried but could not speak; 

And her feelings found 

No channel of sound 
In prayer, or sob, or shriek. 

Once more tbat cry of anguish 

Thrilled through the tempest's strife, 
And it stirred again, 
In her heart and brain, 
The active thinking life ; 
And the light of an inspiration 
Leaped to her brightened eye, 
And on lip and brow 
Was written now 
A purpose pure and high. 

Swiftly she turns, and softly 
She crosses the chamber floor, 

And faltering not, 

In his tiny cot 
She laid the babe she bore. 
And then with a holy impulse, 
She sank to her knees, and made 

A lowly prayer, 

In the silence there, 
And this was the prayer she prayed 2 

" Christ, who did'st bear the scourging, 
And who now dost wear the crown, 

I at thy feet, 

True and Sweet, 
Would lay my burden down. 
Thou bad'st me love and cherish 
The babe thou gavest me, 

And I have kept 

Thy word, nor stept 
Aside from following Thee. 
10 



146 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

" And lo ! my "boy is dying ! 
And vain is all my care ; 

And my burden's weight 

Is very great, 
Yea, greater than I can bear ! 
Lord, Thou knowest what peril 
Doth threat these poor men's lives, 

And I, a woman, 

Most weak and human, 
Do plead for their waiting wives. 
Thou can'st not let them perish ; 

Up, Lord, in Thy strength, and save 

From the scorching breath 

Of this terrible death, 
On this cruel winter wave. 
Take Thou my babe and watch it, 
No care is like to thine ; 

And let Thy power, 

In this perilous hour, 
Supply what lack is mine." 

And so her prayer she ended, 
And rising to her feet, 

Gave one lon^ look 

At the cradle nook 
Where the child's faint pulses beat; 
And then, with softest footsteps, 
Retrod the chamber floor; 

And noiselessly groped 

For the latch, and oped, 
And crossed the cottage door. 

4 

And through the tempest bravely 
Jane Conquest fought her way, 

By snowy deep, 

And slippery steep, 
To where her duty lay. 
And she journeyed onward, breathless, 
And weary and sore and faint, 

Yet forward pressed 

With the strength, and the zest, 
And the ardor of a saint. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 147 

Solemn, and weird, and lonely, 
Amid its countless graves, 

Stood the old, old gray chureh, 

On its tall rock perch, 
Secure from the sea and its waves ; 
And beneath its sacred shadow 
Lay the hamlet safe and still ; 

For however the sea 

And the wind might be, 
There was quiet under the hill. 

Jane Conquest reached the churchyard, 
And stood by the old church door, 

But the oak was tough, 

And had bolts enough, 
And her strength was frail and poor; 
So she crept through a narrow window, 
And climbed the belfry stair, 

And grasped the rope, 

Sole cord of hope, 
For the mariners in despair. 

And the wild wind helped her bravely, 
And she wrought with an earnest will, 
And the clamorous bell 
Spoke out right well 
To the hamlet under the hill. 
And it roused the slumbering fishers, 
Nor its warning task gave o'er 
Till a hundred fleet 
And eager feet 
Were hurrying to the shore. 
And then it ceased its ringing ; 
For the woman's work was done, 
And many a boat, 
That was now afloat, 
Showed man's work had begun. 

But the ringer in the belfry 
Lay motionless and cold, 
With the cord of hope, 
The church-bell rope, 
Still in her frozen hold. 



148 THE LAWRENCE KECITER. 

How long she lay it boots not, 

But she woke from her swoon at last, 
In her own bright room, 
To find the gloom, 
And the grief, and the peril past, 
With the sense of joy within her, 

And the Christ's sweet presence near; 
And friends around, 
And the coning sound 
Of her babe's voice in her ear. 

And they told her all the story, 
How a brave and gallant few 

Overcame each check, 

And reached the wreck, 
And saved the hopeless crew. 
And how the curious sexton 
Had climbed the belfry stair, 

And of his fright, 

When, cold and white, 
He found her lying there ; 
And how, when they had borne her 
Back to her home again, 

The child she left, 

With a heart bereft 
Of hope, and weary with pain, 
Was found within his cradle 
In a quiet slumber laid ; 

With a peaceful smile 

On its lips the while, 
And the wasting sickness stayed. 

And she said, "'Twas the Christ who watched it, 
And brought it safely through ; " 

And she praised His truth, 

And His tender ruth, 
Who had saved her darling too. 



A good man loves himself too well to lose an estate by 
gaming, and his neighbor too well to win one. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 149 



BEN HAZZAKD'S GUESTS. 

(ANNA P. MARSHALL.) 

Ben Hazzard's hut was smoky and cold, 

Ben Hazzard, half blind, was black and old, 

And he cobbled shoes for his scanty gold. 

Sometimes he sighed for a larger store 

Wherewith to bless the wandering poor; 

For he was not wise in worldly lore. 

The poor were Christ's, he knew no more. 

'Twas very little that Ben could do, 

But he pegged his prayers in many a shoe, 

And only himself and the dear Lord knew. 

Meanwhile he must cobble with all his might 

Till — the Lord knew when — it would all be right, 

For he worked by faith, and not by sight. 

One night a cry from the window came — 

Ben Hazzard was sleepy and tired and lame — 

"Ben Hazzard, open," it seemed to say, 

"Give shelter and food, I humbly pray." 

Ben Hazzard lifted his woolly head 

To listen. " J Tis awful cold," he said, 

And his old bones shook in his ragged bed, 

"But the wanderer must be comforted." 

Out from his straw he painfully crept, 

And over the frosty floor he stept, 

While under the door the snow-wreaths swept. 

"Come in, in the name of the Lord," he cried, 

As he opened the door, and held it wide. 

A milk-white kitten was all he spied ; 

Trembling and crying there at his feet, 

Beady to die in the bitter sleet. 

Ben Hazzard, amazed, stared up and down ; 

The candles were out in all the town; 

The stout house-doors were carefully shut, 

Safe bolted were all but old Ben's hut. 

"I thought that somebody called,' 9 he said; 

"Some dream or other got into my head ; 

Come then, poor pussy, and share my bed." 



150 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

But first he sought for a rusty cup, 
And gave his guest a generous sup. 
Then out from the storm, the wind, and the sleet, 
Puss joyfully lay at old Ben's feet. 
. Truly, it was a terrible storm, 
Ben feared he nevermore should be warm. 
But just as he begun to be dozy, 
And puss was purring soft and cozy, 
A voice called faintly before his door : 
"Ben Hazzard, Hen Hazzard, help, I implore! 
Give drink, and a crust from out your store." 
Ben Hazzard opened his sleepy eyes, 
And his full-moon face showed great surprise. 
Out from his bed he stumbled again, 
Teeth chattering with neuralgic pain, 
Caught at the door in the frozen rain. 
"Come in, in the name of the Lord," he said, 
" With such as I have, thou shalt be fed." 
Only a little black dog he saw 
Whining and shaking a broken paw. 
"Well, well," cried Ben Hazzard, "I must have dreamed, 
But verily like a voice it seemed. 
" Poor creature," he added, with husky tone, 
His feet so cold they seemed like stone, 
" Thou shalt have the whole of my marrow bone.'* 
He went to the cupboard, and took from the shelf 
The bone he had saved for his very self. 
Then, after binding the broken paw, 
Half dead with cold, went back to his straw : 
Under the ancient blue bed-quilt he crept ; 
His conscience w r as white, again he slept; 
But again a voice called, both loud and clear: 
" Ben Hazzard, for Christ's sweet sake, come here ! " 
Once more he stood at the open door, 
And looked abroad as he looked before, 
This time full sure 'twas a voice he heard; 
But all that he saw was a storm-tossed bird, 
With weary pinion and beaten crest, 
And a red blood-stain on his snowy breast. 
"Come in, in the name of the Lord," he said, 
Tenderly raising the drooping head, 
And tearing his tattered robe apart, 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 151 

Laid the cold bird on his own warm heart. 

The sunrise flashed on the snowy thatch, 

As an angel lifted the wooden latch ; 

Ben woke in a flood of golden light, 

And knew the voice that had called all night. 

And steadfastly gazing, without a word, 

Beheld the messenger from the Lord. 

He said to Ben, with a wondrous smile, 

The three guests sleeping all the while, 

"Thrice happy is he that blesseth the poor; 

The humblest creatures that sought thy door, 

For Christ's sweet sake thou hast comforted." 

"Nay, 'twas not much," Ben humbly said, 

With a rueful shake of his old gray head. 

"Who giveth all of his scanty store 

In Christ's dear name, can do no more. 

Behold, the Master who waiteth for thee, 

Saith : i Giving to them, thou hast given to me. 9 n 

Then, with Heaven's light white on his face, "Amen, 

I come in the name of the Lord," said Ben. 

"Frozen to death," the watchman said,' 

When at last he found him in his bed, 

With a smile on his face so strange and bright, 

He wondered what old Ben saw that night. 

Ben's lips were silent, and never told, 

He had gone up higher to find his gold. 



THE GHOST. 

J Tis about twenty years since Abel Law, 
A short, round-favored, merry 
Old soldier of the Revolutionary 
War, 

Was wedded to 
A most abominable shrew. 
The temper, sir, of Shakspeare's Catharine 
Could no more be compared with hers, 
Than mine 
With Lucifer's. 

Her eyes were like a weasel's; she had a harsh 
Face, like a cranberry marsh, 



152 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

All spread 

With spots of white and red; 
Hair of the color of a wisp of straw, 
And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. 
The appellation of this lovely dame 
Was Nancy ; don't forget the name. 

Her brother David was a tall, 
Good-looking chap, and that was all ; 
One of your great, big nothings, as we say 
Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes 
And cracking them on other folks. 
Well, David undertook one night to play 
The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who, 
He knew, 

Would be returning from a journey through 
A grove of forest wood, 
That stood 
Below 
The house some distance, — half a mile or so. 

With a long taper 
Cap of white paper, 
Just made to cover 
A wig, nearly as large over 
As a corn-basket, and a sheet, 
With both ends made to meet 
Across his breast, 

(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,) 
He took 

His station near 
A huge oak-tree, 
Whence he could overlook 
The road, and see 
Whatever might appear. 

It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel 
Had left the table 

Of an inn, where he had made a halt, 
With horse and wagon, 
To taste a flagon 
Of malt 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 153 

Liquor, and so forth, which, heing done, 
He went on, 

Caring no more for twenty ghosts, 
Than if they were so many posts. 

David was nearly tired of waiting ; 
His patience w r as abating; 
At length, he heard the careless tones 
Of his kinsman's voice, 
And then the noise 
Of wagon-wheels among the stones. 
Abel was quite elated, and was roaring 
With all his might, and pouring 
Out, in great confusion, 

Scraps of old songs made in "The Revolution." 
His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton; 
And jovially he went on, 
Scaring the whip-poor-wills among the trees 
With rhymes like these : — [Smys.] 

" i See the Yankees leave the hill, 

With baggernetts declining, 
With lopped-down hats and rusty guns, 

And leather aprons shining.' 

" See the Yankees »— Whoa ! Why, what is that ? " 

Said Abel, staring like a cat, 

As slowly on the fearful figure strode 

Into the middle of the road. 

"My conscience, what a suit of clothes ! 
Some crazy fellow. I suppose. 

Hallo ! friend, what's your name? by the powers of gin, 
That's a strange dress to travel in." 
"Be silent, Abel ; for I now have come 
To read your doom ; 

Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. 
I am a spirit — " 

" I suppose you are ; 
But you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell 3-011 why: 
Here is a fact which you can not deny ; — 



154 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

All spirits must "be either good 

Or bad, — that's understood, — 

And be you good or evil, I am sure 

That I'm secure. 

If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil, — 

And I don't know but you may be the Devil,- 

If that's the case, you'll recollect, I fancy, 

That I am married to your sister Nancy ! " 



BABY. 

(GEORGE MACDONALD.) 

Where did you come from, baby dear? 
Out of the everywhere into here. 

Where did you get those eyes so blue? 
Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? 
Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear ? 
I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and high? 
A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? 
I saw something better than any one knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear? 
God spoke and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands? 
Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? 
From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 



THE LAWKENCE RECITER. 155 

How did the j all just come to be you ? 
God thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear ? 
God thought about you, and so I am here. 



PAPA'S LETTER. 

I was sitting in my study, 

Writing letters, when I heard, 

" Please, dear mamma, Mary told me 
Mamma mustn't be disturbed. 

" But Pse tired of the kitty, 
Want some ozzer fing to do. 

Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? 
Tan't I wite a letter too ? " 

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy; 

Bun and play with kitty, now." 
"No, no, mamma ; me wite letter; 

Tan if 'ou will show me how." 

I would paint my darling's portrait 

As his sweet e}^es searched my face- 
Hair of gold and eyes of azure, 
Form of childish, witching grace. 

But the eager face was clouded, 
As I slowly shook my head, 

Till I said, "I'll make a letter 
Of you, darling boy, instead." 

So I parted back the tresses 

From his forehead high and white, 

And a stamp in sport I pasted 
'Mid its waves of golden light. 

Then I said, "Now, little letter, 
Go away and bear good news." 

And I smiled as down the staircase 
Clattered loud the little shoes. 



156 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Leaving me, the darling hurried 
Down to Mary in his glee, 

" Mamma's witing lots of letters ; 
Pse a letter, Mary — see ! " 

No one heard the little prattler, 
As once more he climbed the stair, 

Reached his little cap and tippet, 
Standing on the entry stair. 

No one heard the front door open, 
No one saw the golden hair, 

As it floated o'er his shoulders 
In the crisp October air. 

Down the street the baby hastened 
Till he reached the office door. 

" Pse a letter, Mr. Postman ; 
Is there room for any more ? 

" 'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa, 
Papa lives with God, 'ou know, 

Mamma sent me for a letter, 
Does 'ou fink 'at I tan do ? " 

But the clerk in wonder answered, 
"Not to-day, my little man." 

u Den I'll find anozzer office, 
'Cause I must do if I tan." 

Fain the clerk would have detained him, 
But the pleading face was gone, 

And the little feet were hastening — 
By the busy crowd swept on. 

Suddenly the crowd was parted, 
People fled to left and right, 

As a pair of maddened horses 
At the moment dashed in sight. 

No one saw the baby figure — 
No one saw the golden hair, 

Till a voice of frightened sweetness 
Hang out on the autumn air. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 157 

'Twas too late — a moment only- 
Stood the beauteous vision there, 

Then the little face lay lifeless, 
Covered o'er with golden hair. 

Reverently they raised ray darling, 

Brushed away the curls of gold, 
Saw the stamp upon the forehead, 

Growing now so icy cold. 

Not a mark the face disfigured, 

Showing where a hoof had trod; 
But the little life was ended — 

"Papa's letter" was with God. 

SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

(THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.) 

Up from the South at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar. 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war, 

Thundered along the horizon's bar ; 

And louder yet into Winchester rolled 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the listener cold, 

As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good, broad highway leading down ; 

And there, through the flush of the morning lig* 

A steed, as black as the steeds of night, 

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with his utmost speed; 

Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 



158 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south 
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth ; 
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to foemen the doom of disaster. 
The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master, 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battle-field cal]s; 
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind, 

Like an ocean flying before the wind, 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 

But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the General saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; 

What was done ! what to do ? a glance told him both, 

Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, 

And the wave of retreat checked its course there, 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; 

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, 

He seemed to the whole great army to say, 

" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 

From Winchester, down to save the day." 

Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man ! 

And when their statues are placed on high 

Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, 

There, with the glorious General's name, 

Be it said in letters both bold and bright: 

" Here is the steed that saved the day 

By carrying Sheridan into the light, 

From Winchester — twenty miles away!" 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 159 



ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH. 

(GEORGE HOEY.) 

The first thing that I remember was Carlo tugging away, 
With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as 

much as to say : 
" Come, master, awake, attend to the switch, lives now 

depend upon you, 
Think of the souls in the coming train, and the graves you 

are sending them to. 
Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of 

the father and son, 
Think of the lover and loved one too, think of them 

doomed every one 
To fall (as it were by your very hand) into yon fathomless 

ditch, 
Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who 

now lies asleep at the switch." 

I sprang up amazed — scarce knew where I stood, sleep had 

overmastered me so ; 
I could hear the wind hollowly howling, and the deep river 

dashing below, 
I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the 

tempest were fanned, 
But what was that noise in the distance ? That, I could 

not understand. 
I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some 

muffied drum, 
Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my 

very ears hum ; 
What is this light that surrounds me and seems to set fire 

to my brain ? 

What whistle's that, yelling so shrill? Ah! I know now; 
it's the train. 

We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root 

to the place ; 
So I stood — with this demon before me, its heated breath 

scorching my facej 



160 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Its headlight made day of the darkness, and glared like 

the eyes of some witch, — 
The train was almost upon me before I remembered the 

switch. 
I sprang to it, seizing it wildly, the train dashing fast 

down the track ; 
The switch resisted my efforts, some devil seemed holding 

it back ; 
On, on came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face 

like a flash ; 
I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew 

nothing after the crash. 

How long I lay there unconscious 'twas impossible for me 

to tell ; 
My stupor was almost a heaven, my waking almost a hell, — 
For I then heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of 

husbands and wives, 
And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must 

account for their lives; 
Mothers rushed by me like maniacs, their eyes glaring 

madly and wild ; 
Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like 

a child; 
Children searching for parents, I noticed, as by me they 

sped, 
And lips, that could form naught but "Mamma," were 

calling for one perhaps dead. 

My mind was made up in a moment, the river should hide 

me away, 
When, under the still burning rafters I suddenly noticed 

there lay 
A little white hand : she who owned it was doubtless an 

object of love 
To one whom her loss would drive frantic, tho' she guarded 

him now from above ; 
I tenderly lifted the rafters and quietly laid them one side ; 
How little she thought of her journey when she left for 

this dark fatal ride ! 
I lifted the last log from off her, and while searching for 

some spark of life, 
Turned her little face up in the starlight, and recognized — 

Maggie, my wife ! 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 161 

Lord ! thy scourge is a hard one, at a blow thou haafc 

shattered my pride ; 
My life will be one endless nightmare, with Maggie away 

from my side. 
How often I'd sat down and pictured the scenes in our 

long, happy life; 
How I'd strive through all my life time, to build up a 

home for my wife ; 
How people would envy us always in our cozy and neat 

little nest; 
How I should do all of the labor, and Maggie should all 

the day rest ; 
How one of God's blessings might cheer us, how some day 

I p'raps should be rich ; — 
But all of my dreams have been shattered, while I laid 

there asleep at the switch ! 

1 fancied I stood on my trial, the jury and judge I could 

see ; 
And every eye in the court room was steadily fixed upon 

me; 
And fingers were panted in scorn, till I felt my face 

blushing blood-red, 
And the next thing 1 heard were the words, " Hanged by 

the neck until dead." 
Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught 

tight hold of a dress, 
And I heard u What's the matter, dear Jim ? You've had 

a bad nightmare, 1 guess ! " 
And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from 

the ditch. 
I'd been taking a nap in my bed, and had not been "Asleep 

at the switch." 



Woman's charms are certainly many and powerful. 
The expanding rose just bursting into beauty has an 
irresistible bewitchingness; the blooming bride led tri- 
umphantly to the hymeneal altar awakens admiration and 
interest, and the blush of her cheek fills with delight; but 
the charm of maternity is more sublime than ail theso. 



162 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



THE SUICIDAL CAT. 

There was a man named Ferguson, 

He lived out on Broad street, 
He had a speckled Thomas cat 

That couldn't well be beat; 
He'd catch more rats and mice, and sieh, 

Than forty cats could eat. 

This cat would come into the room 

And climb upon a cheer, 
And there he'd set and lick hisself, 

And purr so awful queer, 
That Ferguson would yell at him — 

But still he'd purr — severe. 

And then he'd climb the moon-lit fence, 

And loaf around and yowl, 
And spit and claw another cat 

Alongside of the jowl ; 
And then they both would shake their tails 

And jump around and howl. 

Oh, this here cat of Ferguson's 

"Was fearful then to see ; 
He'd yell precisely like he was 

In awful agony ; 
You'd think a first-class stomach-ache 

Had struck some small baby. 

And all the mothers in the street, 

Waked by the horrid din, 
Would rise right up and search their babes 

To find some worrying pin ; 
And still this viperous cat would keep 

A hollerin' like sin. 

And as for Mr. Ferguson, 

; Twas more than he could bear, 
And so he hurled his boot-jack out 
, Bight through the midnight air; 
But this vociferous Thomas cat, 
Not one cent did he care. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 163 

For still he yowled and kept his fur 

A standin' up on end, 
And his old spine a doublin' up 

As far as it would bend, 
As if his hopes of happiness 

Did on his lungs depend. 

But while a curvin' of his spine, 

And waitin' to attack 
A cat upon the other fence, 

There come an awful crack ;- 
And this here speckled Thomas cat 

Was busted in the back ! 

When Ferguson came home next day, 

There lay his old feline, 
And not a life was left in him, 

Although he had had nine. 
"All this here comes/' said Ferguson, 

"Of curvin' of his spine." 

Now all you men whose tender hearts 

This painful tale does rack, 
Just take this moral to yourselves, 

All of you, white and black; 
Don't ever go like this here cat, 

To gettin' up your back. 



NELL. 

(ROBERT BUCHANAN.) 

You're a kind woman, Nan ! ay, kind and true! 
God will be good to faithful folk like you ! 
Yon knew my Ned ! 

A better, kinder lad never drew breath. 
We loved each other true, and we were wed 
In church, like some who took him to his death; 
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost 
His senses when he took a drop too much. 



1G4 THE LAWRENCE RKCITKK. 

Drink did it all — drink made him mad when crossed— 
He was a poor man. and they're hard on such. 

Nan ! that night! that night! 
When I was sitting in this very chair, 
Watching and waiting in the candlelight, 
And heard his foot come creaking up the stair, 
And turned, and saw him standing yonder, white 
And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair! 
And when I caught his arm and called, in fright, 
He pushed me, swore, and to the door he passed 
To lock and bar it fast. 

Then down he drops just like a lump of lead, 

Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter, 

And — Nan ! — just then the light seemed growing brighter, 

And I could see the hands that held his head, 

All red ! all bloody red ! 

What could I do but scream ? He groaned to hear, 

Jumped to his feet, and gripped me by the wrist: 

"Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!" he hissed. 

And I was still, for fear. 

"They're after me — I've knifed a man!" he said, 

"Be still ! — the drink— drink did it ! — he is dead ! " 

Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn't weep; 

All T could do was cling to Ned and hark, 

And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep, 

But breathing hard and deep. 

The candle flickered out — the room grew dark — 

And — Nan ! — although my heart was true and tried — 

When all grew cold and dim, 

1 shuddered — not for fear of them outside, 
But just afraid to be alone with him. 

"Ned ! Ned ! " I whispered — and he moaned and shook, 
But did not heed or look ! 

"Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!" 
At that he raised his head and looked so wild; 
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw 
His arms around me, crying like a child, 
And held me close — and not a word was spoken, 
While I clung tighter to his heart, and pressed him, 
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken. 
But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, and blessed 
him. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 1G5 

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold 

With sound o' falling rain — 

When I could see his face, and it looked old, 

Like the pinched face of one that dies in pain; 

Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun, 

We never thought to hide away or run, 

Until we heard those voices in the street, 

That hurrying of feet, 

And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had come. 

"Run, Ned ! " I cried, but he was deaf and dumb ! 

"Hide, Ned!" I screamed, and held him; "hide thee, 

man ! " 
He stared with bloodshot eyes, and hearkened, Nan ! 
And all the rest is like a dream — the sound 
Of knocking at the door — 
A rush of men — a struggle on the ground — 
A mist — a tramp — a roar; 
For when I got my senses back again, 
The room was empt} r — and my head went round ! 

God help him ? God will help him ! Ay, no fear! 
It was the drink, not Ned — he meant no wrong; 
So kind! so good ! — and I am useless here, 
Now he is lost that loved me true and long. 

That night before lie died, 
I didn't cry — my heart was hard and dried ; 
But when the clocks went '• one," I took my shawl 
To cover up my face, and stole away, 
And walked along the silent streets, where all 
Looked cold and still and gray, 
And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square; 
But just as "three" was sounded close at hand 
I started and turned east, before I knew, 
Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the Strand, 
And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo. 

Some men and lads went by, 

And turning round, I gazed, and watched 'em go, 
Then felt that they were going to see him die, 
And drew my shawl more tight, and followed slow. 
More people passed me, a country cart with hay 
Stopped clo-e beside me, an I two or three 
Talked about it I I moaned and crept away ! 



166 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Next came a hollow sound I knew full well, 

For something gripped me round the heart ! — and then 

There came the solemn tolling of a bell ! 

God! God! how could I sit close by, 
And neither scream nor cry ? 

As if I had been stone, all hard and cold ; 

1 listened, listened, listened, still and dumb, 
While the folk murmured, and the death-bell tolled, 
And the day brightened, and his time had come. 

Till — Nan !— all else was silent, but the knell 
Of the slow bell ! 

And T could only wait, and wait, and wait, 
And what I waited for I couldn't tell — ■ 
At last there came a groaning deep and great — 
Saint Paul's struck " eight" — 
I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and fell ! 



THE LITTLE HERO. 

Now, lads, a short yarn T'll just spin you, 
As happened on our very last run, — 

'Bout a boy as a man's soul had in him, 
Or else I'm a son of a gun. 

From Liverpool port out three days, lads; 

The good ship floating over the deep; 
The skies bright with sunshine above us; 

The waters beneath us asleep. 

Not a bad-tempered lubber among us; 

A jollier crew never sailed, 
; Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage, 

But good seaman as ever was hailed. 

Regulation, good order, his motto; 

Strong as iron, an' steady as quick ; 
With a couple of bushy black eyebrows, 

And eyes tierce as those of Old Nick. 

One day he comes up from below, 
A-graspin' a lad by the arm, — 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 167 

A poor little ragged young urchin 

As had ought to bin home to his marm. 

An' the mate asks the boy, pretty roughly, 

How he dared for to be stowed awa} T , 
A-cheatin' the owners and captain, 

Sailin', eatin', and all without pay. 

The lad had a face bright and sunny, 

An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's, 
An' looks up at the scowl in' first mate, lads, 

An' shakes back his long shining curls; 

An' says he in a voice dear and pretty, 

"My step-father brought me aboard, 
And hid me away down the stairs there; 

For to keep me he couldn't afford. 

"And he told me the big ship would take me 

To Halifax town, — oh, so far! 
And he said, 'Now the Lord is your father, 

Who lives where the good angels are.' " 

"It's a lie," says the mate : "not your father, 

But some of these big skulkers near, 
Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor. 

Speak up, tell the truth, dye hear?" 

"Twarn't us," growled the tars as stood round 'em. 

" What's your age?" says one of the brine. 
"And your name? " says another old salt fish. 

Says the small chap, " I'm Frank, just turned nine." 

"Oh, my eyes!" says another bronzed seaman 
To the mate, who seemed staggered hisself, 

"Let him go free to Old Novy Scoshy, 
And I'll work out his passage myself." 

"Belay ! " says the mate : " shut your mouth, man I 

I'll sail this ere craft, bet your life, 
An' I'll fit the lie on to you somehow, 

As square as a fork fits a knife." 



168 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Then a-knitting his black brows with anger, 

He tumbled the poor slip below ; 
An', says he, " PVaps to-morrow'll change you—* 

If it don't, back to England you go." 

I took him some dinner, be sure, mates, — 
Just think, only nine years of age ! 

An' next day, just as six bells tolled, 
The mate brings hi in up from his cage. 

An' he plants him before us amidships, 

His eye^ like two coals all a-light; 
An' he says, through his teeth, mad with passion, 

An' his hand lifted ready to smite. 

"Tell the truth, lad, and then I'll forgive you; 

But the truth I will have. Speak it out. 
It wasn't your father as brought you, 

But some of these men here about." 

Then that pair o' blue eyes, bright and winning, 
Clear and shining with innocent youth, 

Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows; 

An', says he, " Sir, I've told you the truth." 

*Twarn't no use; the mate didn't believe him, 
Though every man else did, aboard. 

With rough hand by the collar lie seized him, 
And cried, u You shall hang, by the Lord !" 

An' he snatched his watch out of his pocket, 
Just as if he'd been drawing a knife. 

"If in ten minutes more you don't speak, lad, 
There's the rope, and good-by to your life." 

There ! you never see such a sight, mates, 
As that boy with his bright pretty face, — 

Proud though, and steady with courage, 
Never thinking of asking for grace. 

Eight minutes went by all in silence. 

Says the mate then, fcA Speak, lad : say your say.'' 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 169 

His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops, 
He faltering says, " May I pray ? " 

I'm a rough and hard old tarpa'lin 

As any "blue-jacket" afloat; 
But the salt water sprung to ray eyes, lads, 

And I felt my heart rise in my throat. 

The mate kind o' trembled an' shivered, 

And nodded his head in reply; 
And his cheek went all white of a sndden, 

And the hot light was quenched in his eye, 

Though he stood like a figure of marble, 

With his watch tightly grasped in his hand, 

An* the passengers all still around him: 
Ne'er the like was on sea or on land. 

An' the little chap kneels on the deck there, 
An' his hands he clasps over his breast, 

As he must ha' done often at home, bids, 
At night-time, when going to rest. 

And soft come the first words, "Our Father," 

Low and soft from the dear baby-lip; 
But, low as they were, heard like trumpet 

By each true man aboard of that ship. 

Every bit of that prayer, mates, he goes through, 

To, "Forever and ever. Amen." 
And for all the bright gold of the Indies, 

I wouldn't ha' heard it again. 

And, says he, when he finished, uprising 

An' lifting his blue eyes above, 
"Dear Lord Jesus, oh, take me ro Heaven, 

Back again to my own mother's love ! r ' 

For a minute or two. like a magic, 

We stood every man like the dead; 
Then back to the mate's face comes running 

The life-blood again, warm and red. 



170 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Off his feet was that lad sudden lifted, 
And clasped to the mate's rugged breast; 

And his husky voice muttered " God bless you! w 
As his lips to his forehead he pressed. 

If the ship hadn't been a good sailer, 

And gone by herself right along, 
All had gone to Old Davy; for all, lads, 

Was gathered 'round in that throng. 

Like a man, says the mate, " God forgive me, 

That ever I used you so hard. 
It's myself as had ought to be strung up, 

Taut and sure, to that ugly old yard." 

"You believe me then?" said the youngster. 

" Believe } r ou ! " He kissed him once more. 
"You'd have laid down your life for the truth, lad. 

Believe you ! From now, evermore ! " 

An' pVaps, mates, he wasn't thought much on 
All that day and the rest of the trip; 

PVaps he paid after all for his passage; 
P'r'aps he wasn't the pet of the ship. 

An'if that little chap ain't a model, 

For all, younir or old, short or tall, 
And if that ain't the stuff to make men of, 

Old Ben, he knows naught after all. 



Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain: 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 

Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncofSned, and unknown. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 171 
THE THKEE BELLS. 

(JOHN G. WHITTIER.) 

This poem refers to the well-known rescue of the crew of an 
American vessel, sinking in mid-ocean, by Captain Leigh ton, of 
the English ship Three Bells. Unable to take them off, in the 
night and the storm, he stayed by them until morning, shouting 
to them from time to time through his trumpet, "Never fear, 
hold on, I'll stand by you/ 1 

Beneath the low-hung night cloud 
That raked her splintering mast, 

The good ship settled slowly, 
The cruel leak gained fast. 

Over the awful ocean 

Her signal guns pealed out; 

Dear God ! was that thy answer, 

From the horror round about ? 

A voice came down the wild wind,-— 

" Ho ! ship ahoy ! " its cry: 
" Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow 

Shall stand till daylight by!" 

Hour after hour crept slowly, 

Yet on the heaving swells 
Tossed up and down the ship-lights, — 

The lights of the Three Bells. 

And ship to ship made signals; 

Man answered back to man ; 
While oft, to cheer and hearten, 

The Three Bells nearer ran. 

And the captain from her taffrail 

Sent down his hopeful cry: 
"Take heart! hold on !" he shouted, 

" The Three Bells shall stand by ! " 

All night across the waters 

The tossing lights shone clear; 



172 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

All night from reeling taffrail 
The Three Bells sent her cheer. 

And when the dreary watches 
Of storm and darkness passed, 

Just as the wreck lurched under, 
All souls were saved at last. 

Sail on, Three Bells, forever, 

In grateful memory sail ! 
Ring on, Three Bells of Rescue, 

Above the wave and gale ! 

As thine, in night and tempest, 

I hear the Master's cry, 
And, tossing through the darkness, 

The lights of God draw nigh. 



LITTLE ROCKET'S CHRISTMAS. 

(VANDYKE BROWN.) 

I'll tell you how the Christmas came 
To Rocket — no. you never met him, 

That is, you never knew his name 
Although 'tis possible you've let him 

Display his skill upon your shoes; 

A bootblack — Arab, if you choose. 

Has inspiration dropped to zero 

"When such material makes a hero ? 

And who was Rocket? Well, an urchin, 
A gamin, dirty, torn, and tattered, 

Whose chiefest pleasure was to perch in 
The I>owery gallery ; there it mattered 

But little what the play might be — 

Broad farce or point-lace comedy — 

He meted out his just applause 

By rigid, fixed, and proper laws. 

A father once he had, no doubt, 
A mother on the Island staying, 



TIIE LAWRENCE RECITER. 173 

Which left him free to knock about 

And gratify a taste for straying 
Through crowded streets. 'Twas there he found 
Companionship and grew renowned. 
An ash-box served him for a bed — 

As good, at least, as Moses 3 rushes — 
And for his daily meat and bread, 

He earned them with his box and brushes. 

An Arab of the city's slums, 

With ready tongue and empty pocket, 

Unaided left to solve life's sums, 

But plucky always — that was Rocket! 

'Twas Christmas eve, and all the day 

The snow had fallen fine and fast; 
In banks and drifted heaps it lay 

Along the streets. A piercing blast 
Blew cuttingly. The storm was past, 
And now the stars looked coldly down 
Upon the snow-enshrouded town. 
Ah, well it is if Christmas brings 
Good will and peace which poet Hugs! 
How full are all the streets to-night 
With happy faces, flushed and bright! 
The matron in her silks and furs, 

The pompous banker, fat and sleek, 
The idle, well-fed loiterers, 

The merchant trim, the churchman meek, 
Forgetful now of hate and spite, 
For all the world is glad to-night! 
All, did I say? Ah. i o, not all, 
For sorrow throws on some its pall 
And here, within the broad, fair city, 

The Christinas time no beauty brings 
To those who plead in vain for pity, 

To those who cherish but the stings 
Of wretched ii ess and want and woe, 
Who never love's great bounty know. 
Whose grief no kindly hands assuage, 
Whose misery mocks our Christian age. 
Pray ask yourself what nvain to them 
That Christ is born in Bethlehem! 



W& THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

But Rocket? On this Christmas eve 

You might have seen him standing where 
The citj^s streets so interweave 

They form that somewhat famous square 
Called Printing House. His face was bright, 

And at this gala, festive season, 
You could not find a heart more light— 

I'll tell you in a word the reason : 
By dint of patient toil in shining 

Patrician shoes and Wall street boots, 
He had within his jacket's lining, 

A dollar and a half — the fruits 
Of pinching, saving, and a trial 
Of really Spartan self-denial. 

That dollar and a half was more 
Than Rocket ever owned before. 
A princely fortune, so he thought, 

And with those hoarded dimes and nickels 
What Christmas pleasures may be bought! 

A dollar and a half ! It tickles 
The boy to say it over, musing 
Upon the money's proper using; 
"I'll go a gobbler, leg and breast, 

With cranberry sauce and fixin's nice, 
And pie, mince pie, the very best, 

And puddin' — say a double slice! 
And then to doughnuts how I'll freeze ; 
With coffee — guess that ere's the cheese ! 
And after grub I'll go to see 
The i Seven Goblins of Dundee.' 
If this yere Christmas ain't a buster, 
I'll let yer rip my Sunday duster!" 

So Rocket mused as he hurried along, 

Clutching his money with grasp yet tighter, 
And humming the air of a rollicking song, 

With a heart as light as his clothes — or lighter. 
Through Centre street he makes his way, 

When just as he turns the corner at Pearl, 
He hears a voice cry out in dismay. 

And sees before him a slender girl, 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. ]75 



As ragged and tattered in dress as he, 
With hand stretched forth for charity. 

In the street-light's fitful and flickering glare 

He caught a glimpse of the pale, pinched face- 
So gaunt and wasted, yet strangely fair, 

With a lingering touch of childhood's grace 
On her delicate features. Her head was bare, 

And over her shoulders disordered there hung 
A mass of tangled, nut-brown hair. 

In misery old as in years she was young, 
She gazed in his face. And, oh ! for the eyes — 
The big, blue, sorrowful, hungry eyes, — 

That were fixed in a desperate frightened stare. 

Hundreds have jostled by her to-night — 

The rich, the great, the good and the wise, 
Hurrying on to the warmth and light 
Of happy homes — they have jostled her by, 
And the only one who has heard her cry, 
Or, hearing, has felt his heartstrings stirred, 
Is Rocket — this youngster of coarser clay, 
This gamin, who never so much as heard 
The beautiful story of Him who lay 
In the manger of old on Christmas day ! 

With artless pathos and simple speech, 

She stands and tells him her pitiful tale; 
Ah, well if those who pray and preach 

Could catch an echo of that sad wail ! 
She tells of the terrible battle for bread, 

Tells of a father brutal with crime, 
Tells of a mother lying dead, 

At this, the gala Christmas-time ; 
Then adds, gazing up at the starlit sky, 
11 I'm hungry and cold, and I wish I could die." 

What is it trickles down the cheek 

Of Rocket — can it be a tear? 
He stands and stares, but does not speak; 

He thinks again of that good cheer 
Which Christmas was to bring; he sees 

Visions of turkey, steaming pies, 



176 THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 

The play-bills — then, in place of these, 
The girl's beseeching, hungry eyes; 

One mighty effort, gulping down 
The disappointment in Ids breast, 

A quivering of the lip, a frown, 

And then, while pity pleads her best, 

He snatches forth his cherished hoard, 

And gives it to her like a lord ! 

"Here, freeze to that; I'm flush, yer see, 
And then yon needs it more 'an me!" 
With that he turns and walks away, 
So fast the girl can nothing say, 
So fast he does not hear the prayer 
That sancifies the winter air. 
But He who blessed the widow's mite 
Looked down and smiled upon the sight. 

No feast of steaming pies or turkey, 

No ticket for the matinee, 
All drear and desolate and murky, 

In tru?h, a very dismal day. 
With dinner on a crust of bread, 

And not a penny in his pocket, 
A friendly ash-box for a bed — 

Thus came the Christmas day to Rocket, 
And yet — and here's the strangest thing— 

As best befits the festive season, 
The boy was happy as a king — 

I winder can you guess the reason ? 



GUALBERTO'S VICTORY. 

(ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.) 

A mountain pass so narrow that a man 
Riding that way to Florence, stooping, can 
Touch with his hand the rocks on either side, 
And pluck the flowers that in the crannies hide. 
Here, on Good Friday, centuries ago. 
Mounted and armed, John Gualbert met his foe; 



THE LAWKENCE RECITER. 177 

Mounted and armed as well, but riding down 
To the fair city from the woodland brown, 
This way and that, swinging his jeweled whip, 
A gay old love-song on his careless lip, 
And on his charger's neck the reins loose thrown. 

An accidental meeting ; but the snn 

Burned on their brows, as if it had been one 

Of deep design, so deadly was the look 

Of mutual hate their olive faces took ; 

As (knightly courtsey forgot in wrath,) 

Neither would yield the enemy his path. 

11 Back ! " cried Gualberto. " Never ! " yelled his foe 

And on the instant, sword in hand, they throw 

Them from their saddles, nothing loath 

And fall to fighting, with a smothered oath. 

A pair of shapely, stalwart cavaliers, 

Well-matched in stature, weapons, weight, and years, 

Theirs was a long, fierce struggle on the grass, 

Thrusting and parrying up and down the pass; 

Swaying from left to right, in combat clenched. 

Till all the housings of their steeds were drenched 

With brutal gore : and ugly blood-drops oozed 

Upon the rocks, from head and hands contused. 

But at the close, when Gualbert stopped to rest, 

His heel was planted on his foemairs breast; 

And looking up, the fallen courtier sees, 

As in a dream, gray rocks and waving trees 

Before his glazing vision faintly float, 

While Gualbert's sabre glitters at his throat. 

"Now die, base wretch !" the victor fiercely cries, 
His heart of hate outflashing from his eyes : 
"Never again, by the all-righteous Lord ! 
Shalt thou with life, escape this trusty sword.— 
Revenge is sweet !" And upward glanced the steel 
But ere it fell, — dear Lord ! a silvery peal 
Of voices chanting in the town below, 
Grave, ghostty voices chanting far below, 
Rose, like a fountain's spray from spires of snow, 
And chimed and chimed to die in echoes slow. 
12 



178 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

In the sweet silence following the sound, 
Gualberto and the man upon the ground 
Glared at each other with bewildered eyes, 
(The glare of hunted deer on leashed hound) ; 
And then the vanquished, struggling to arise, 
Made one last effort, while his face grew dark 
With pleading agony : i% Gualberto ! hark ! 
The chant — the hour — thou know'st the olden fashion, - 
The monks below intone our Lord's dear Passion. 
Oh ! by this cross!" — and here he caught the hilt 
Of Gualbert's sword, — " and by the Blood once spilt 
Upon it for us both long years ago, 
Forgive — forget — and spare a fallen foe ! '* 

The face that bent above grew white and set, 

(Christ or the demon ? — in the balance hung) : 

The lips were drawn, — the brow bedewed with sweat ; 

But on the grass the harmless sword was flung : 

And stooping down, the hero, generous, wrung 

The outstretched hand. Then, lest he lose control 

Of -the but half-tamed passions of his soul, 

Fled up the pathway, tearing casque and coat 

To ease the tempest throbbing at his throat; 

Fled up the crags as if a fiend pursued, 

And paused not till he reached a chapel rude. 

There, in the cool dim stillness, on his knees, 
Trembling, he flings himself, and, startled, sees 
Set in the rock a crucifix antique, 
From which the wounded Christ bends down to speak: 

" Thou hast done well, Gualberto. For My sake 
Thou did? st forgive thine enemy ; now take 
My gracious pardon for thy times of tsin } 
And from this day a better life begin." 

White flashed the angel's wings above his head, 
Rare, subtile perfumes through the place were shed 
And golden harps and sweetest voices poured 
Their glorious hosannas to the Lord, 
Who in that hour, and in that chapel quaint, 
Changed by His power, by His dear love's constraint, 
Gualbert the sinner into John the saint. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 179 



WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. 

You're surprised that I ever should say so? 

Just wait till the reason I've given 
Why I say I shan't care for the music, 

Unless there is whistling in heaven. 
Then you'll think it no very great wonder, 

Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit, 
That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, 

Its music will not be complete. 

It was late in the autumn of '40 ; 

We had come from our far Eastern home 
Just in season to build us a cabin, 

Ere the cold of the winter should come; 
And we lived all the while in our wagon 

That husband was clearing the place 
Where the house was to stand ; and the clearing 

And building it took many days. 

So that our heads were scarce sheltered 

In under its roof, when our store 
Of provisions was almost exhausted, 

And husband must journey for more ; 
And the nearest place where he could get them 

Whs yet such a distance away, 
That it forced him from home to be absent 

At least a whole night and a day. 

You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, 

And the nearest was more than a mile ; 
And we hadn't found time yet to, know them, 

For we had been busy the while. 
And the man who had helped at the raising 

Just staid till the job was well done ; 
And as soon as his money was paid him 

Had shouldered his axe and had gone. 

Well, husband just kissed me and started — 
I could scarcely suppress a deep groan 



180 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

At the thought of remaining with baby 
So long in the house all alone ; 

For, my dear, I was childish and timid, 
And braver ones might well have feared, 

For the wild wolf was often heard howling, 
And savages sometimes appeared. 

But T smothered my grief and my terror 

Till husband was off on his ride, 
And then in my arms I took Josey, 

And all the day long sat and cried, 
As I thought of the long, dreary hours 

When the darkness of night should fall, 
And I was so utterly helpless, 

With no one in reach of my call. 

And when the night came with its terrors. 

To hide ev'ry ray of light, 
I hung up a quilt by the window, 

And almost dead with affright, 
I kneeled by the side of the cradle, 

Scarce daring to draw a full breath, 
Lest the baby should wake, and its crying 

Should bring us a horrible death. 

There I knelt until late in the evening, 

And scarcely an inch had I stirred, 
When suddenly, far in the distance, 

A sound as of whistling I heard, 
I started up dreadfully frightened, 

For fear 'twas an Indian's call ; 
And then very soon I remembered 

The red man ne'er whistles at all. 

And when I was sure 'twas a white man, 
I thought, were he coining for ill, 

He'd surely approach with more caution- 
Would come without warning, and still. 

Then the sounds, coining nearer and nearer, 
Took the form of a tune light and gay, 

And knew I needn't fear evil 

From one who could whistle that way. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 1S1 

Very soon T hoard footsteps approaching, 

Then came a peculiar dull thump, 
As if some one was heavily striking 

An axe in the top of a stump; 
And then, in another brief moment, 

There came a light tap on the door, 
When, quickly I undid the fast'ning, 

And in stepped a boy, and before 

There was either a question or answer, 
Or either had time to speak, 

I just threw my glad arms around him, 
And gave him a kiss on the cheek. 

Then I started back, scared at my boldness, 

But he only smiled at my fright, 
As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Elick, 

Come to tarry with you through the night. 

II We saw your husband go eastward, 

And made up our minds where he'd gone, 
And I said to the rest of our people, 

* That woman is there all alone, 
And I venture she's awfully lonesome, 

And though she may have no great fear, 

I think she would feel a bit safer 
If only a boy were but near.' 

II So, taking my axe on my shoulder, 
For fear that a savage might stray 

Across my path and need scalping, 

I started right down this way; 
And coming in sight of the cabin, 

And thinking to save you alarm, 
I whistled a tune, just to show you 

I didn't intend any harm. 

"And so here I am, at your service; 

But if you don't want me to stay, 
Why, all you need do is to say so. 

And should'ring my axe, I'll away." 
I dropped in'a chair and near fainted, 

Just at thought of his leaving me then, 
And his e3 r e gave a knowing bright twinkle 

As he said, u 1 guess 1 11 remain." 



182 THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 

And then I just sat there and told him 

How terribly frightened I'd been, 
How his face was to me the most welcome 

Of any I ever had seen ; 
And then I lay down with the baby, 

And slept all the blessed night through, 
For I felt I was safe from all danger 

Near so brave a young fellow and true. 

So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, 

Since such a good reason I've given, 
Why I say I shan't care for the music, 

Unless there is whistling in heaven ? 
Yes, often I've said so in earnest, 

And now what I've said I repeat, 
That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, 

Its music will not be complete. 



TOM. 

(CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.) 

Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew. 

Just listen to this : — 
When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through, 
And I with it, helpless there, full in my view 
What do you think my eyes saw through the fire 
That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher, 
But Kobin, my baby-boy, laughing to see 
The shining? He must have come there after me, 
Toddled alone from the cottage without 

Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout — 
Ob ! how I shouted, " For Heaven's sake, men, 
Save little Robin !" Again and again 
They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall. 
I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call, 
" Never mind, baby, sit still like a man ! 
We're*coming to get you as fast as we can." 
They could not see him, but I could. He sat 
Still on a beam, his little straw hat 
Carefully placed by his side ; and his eyes 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 183 

Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise, 

Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept. 

The roar of the fire up above must have kept 

The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name 

From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came 

Again and again. God, what a cry ! 

The axes went faster: I saw the sparks fly 

Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat 

That scorched them, — when, suddenly, there at their feet f 

The great beams leaned in — they saw him — then, crash, 

Down came the wall ! The men made a dash, — 

Jumped to get out of the way, — and I thought, 

u All's up with poor little Robin ! " and brought 

Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide 

The sight of the child there, — when swift, at my side, 

Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame, 

Straight as a dart — caught the child — and then came 

Back with him, choking and crying, but — saved ! 

Saved safe and sound ! 

Oh, how the men raved, 
Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed ! Then they all 
Rushed at the work agaiu, lest the back wall 
Where I was lying, away from the fire, 
Should fall in and bury me. 

Oh ! you'd admire 
To see Robin now : he's as bright as a dime, 
Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time. 
Tom, it was, saved him. Now, isn't it true 
Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew ? 
There's Robin now ! See, he's strong as a log ! 
And there comes Tom too — 

Yes, Tom was our dog. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD SQUIRE. 

'TwAS a wild, mad kind of night, as black as the bottom- 
less pit ; 
The wind was howling away, like a Bedlamite in a fit, 
Tearing the ash boughs off, and mowing the poplars down, 
In the meadows beyond the old flour mill, where you turn 
off to the town. 



1 31 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

And the rain (well, it did rain) dashing against the 

window glass, 
And deluging on the roof, as the Devil were come to pass; 
The gutters were running in floods outside the stable-door, 
And the spouts splashed from the tiles, as they would 

never give o er. 

Lor*, how the winders rattled! you'd almost ha ? thought 

that thieves 
Were wrenching at the shutters; while a ceaseless pelt 

of leaves 
Flew to the doors in gusts ; and I could hear the beck 
Falling so loud 1 knew at once it was up to a tall man's neck* 

We was huddling in the harness-room, by a little scrap of 

fire, 
And Tom, the coachman, he was there, a-practising for 

the choir; 
But it sounded dismal, anthem did, for squire was dying 

fast, 
And the doctor said, Do what we would, Squire's breaking 

up at last. 

The death-watch, sure enough, ticked loud just over th' 

owld mare's head; 
Though he had never once been heard up there since 

master's boy lay dead ; 
And the only sound, besides Tom's toon, was the stirring 

in the stalls, 
And the gnawing and the scratching of the rats in the 

owld walls. 

We couldn't hear Death's foot pass by, but we knew that 

he was near ; 
And the chill rain and the wind and cold made us all 

shake with fear; 
We listened to the cluck up-stairs, 'twas breathing soft 

and low, 
For the nurse said — At the turn of night the old Squire's 

soul would go. 

Master had been a wildish man, and had led a roughish life ; 
Didn't lie shoot the iiowton squire, who dared write to 
his wife ? 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 185 

He beat the Rads at Hindon Town, I heard, in twenty-nine, 
When every pail in market-place was brimmed with red 
port wine. 

And as for hunting, bless your soul, why forty year or 

more 
He'd kept the Marley hounds, man. as his fay ther did afore ; 
And now to die, and in his bed — the season just begun — 
"It made him fret," the doctor said, "as it might do 

any one." 

And when the young sharp lawyer came to see him sign 

his will, 
Squire made me blow my horn outside as we were going 

to kill ; 
And we turned the hounds out in the court — that seemed 

to do him good ; 
For he swore, and sent us off to seek a fox in Thornhill 

Wood.' 

But then the fever it rose high, and he would go see the 

room 
Where mistress died ten years ago when Lammastide 

si) all come ; 
I mind the year, because our mare at Salisbury broke down ; 
Moreover the town-hall was burnt at Steeple Dinton Town. 

It might be two, or half-past two, the wind seemed quite 

asleep; 
Tom, he was off, but I. awake, sat watch and ward to keep; 
The moon was up, quite glorious like, the rain no longer fell, 
When all at once out clashed and clanged the rusty 

turret bell 

That hadn't b.en heard for twenty year, not since the 

Luddite days. 
Tom he leaj ed up, and I leaped up, for all the house a-blaze 
Had sure not scared us half as much, and out we ran like 

mad, 
I, Tom, and Joe, the whipper-in, and the little stable lad. 

"He's killed himself," that's the idea that came into my 

head; 
I felt as sure as though I saw Squire Barrow ly was dead; 



186 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

When all at once a door flew back, and he met us face to 

face ; 
His scarlet coat was on his back, and he looked like the 

old race. 

The nurse was clinging to his knees, and crying like a child ; 
The maids were sobbing on the stairs, for he looked fierce 

and wild ; 
"Saddle me Lightning Bess, my men/' that's what he 

said to me ; 
"The moon is up, we're sure to find at Stop or Etterly. 

" Get out the dogs ; I'm well to-night, and young again 

and sound, 
I'll have a run once more before they put me under ground ; 
They brought my father home feet first, and it never shall 

be said 
That his son Joe, who rode so straight, died quietly in 

his bed. 

"Brandy!" he cried; "a tumbler full, you women howl- 
ing there ;" 

Then clapped the' old black velvet cap upon his long gray 
hair, 

Thrust on his boots, snatched down his whip, though he 
was old and weak ; 

There was a devil in his eye that would not let me speak. 

We loosed the dogs to humor him, and sounded on the horn; 
The moon was up above the woods, just east of Haggard 

Bourne ; 
I buckled Lightning's throat-lash fast; the Squire was 

watching me ; 
He let the stirrups down himself so quick, yet carefully. 

Then up he got and spurred the mare, and, ere I well could 

mount 
He drove the yard gate open, man, and called to old Dick 

Blount, 
Our huntsman, dead five years ago — for the fever rose 

again, 
And was spreading like a flood of flame fast up into his brain. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 187 

Then off lie flew before the dogs, yelling to call us on, 
While we stood there, all pale and dumb, scarce knowing 

he was gone ; 
We mounted, and below the hill we saw the fox break out, 
And down the covert ride we heard the old Squire's 

parting shout. 

And in the moonlit meadow mist we saw him fly 

the rail, 
Beyond the hurdles by the beck, just half way down the 

vale ; 
I saw him breast fence after fence — nothing could turn 

him back; 
And in the moonlight after him streamed out the brave 

old pack. 

'Twas like a dream, Tom cried to me, as we rode free and 

fast, 
Hoping to turn him at the brook, that could not well be 

passed, 
For it was swollen with the rain; but ah, 'twas not 

to be ; 
Nothing could stop old Lightning Bess but the broad 

breast of the sea. 

The hounds swept on, and well in front the mare had got 

her stride ; 
She broke across the fallow land that runs by the 

down side ; 
We pulled up on Chalk Linton Hill, and as we stood us 

there, 
Two fields beyond we saw the Squire fall stone dead from 

the mare. 

Then she swept on, and in full cry the hounds went out of 

sight; 
A cloud came over the broad moon and something dimmed 

our sight, 
As Tom and I bore master home, both speaking under 

breath ; 
And that's the way I saw th' owld Squire ride boldly to his 

death. 



188 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 

(GEORGE W. BUNGAY.) 

How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells ! 
Each one its creed in music tells^ 
In tones that float upon the air, 
As soft as song, as pure as prayer; 
And I will put in simple rh3*me 
The language of the golden chime ; 
My happy heart with rapture swells 
Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. 

" In deeds of love excel ! excel ! " 
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; 
"This is the church not built on sands, 
Emblem of one not built with hands; 
Its forms and sacred right revere, 
Come worship here ! come worship here! 
In rituals and faith excel ! " 
Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 

"Oh heed the ancient landmarks well !" 
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; 
"No progress made by mortal man 
Can change the just eternal plan : 
With God there can be nothing new; 
Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
While all is well ! is well ! is well ! " 
Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. 

"Ye purifying waters swell !" 
In mellow tones rang out a bell; 
"Though faith alone in Christ can save, 
Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 
To show the world unfaltering faith 
In what the Sacred Scriptures saith : 
swell ! ye rising waters, swell ! " 
Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 189 

" Not faith alone, but works as well, 
Must test the soul ! " said a soft bell ; 
"Come here and cast aside your load, 
And work your way along the road, 
With faith in God, and faith in man, 
And hope in Christ, where hope began; 
Do well ! do well ! do well ! do well!" 
Rang out the Unitarian bell. 

"Farewell! farewell! base world, farewell !" 
In touching tones exclaimed a bell; 
"Life is a boon, to mortals given, 
To fit the soul for bliss in heaven; 
Do not invoke the avenging rod. 
Come here and learn the way to God; 
Say to the world, Farewell ! farewell !" 
Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 

"To all, the truth, we tell ! we tell!" 
Shouted in ecstasies a bell ; 
" Come all ye weary wanderers, see ! 
Our Lord has made salvation f ree ! 
Repent, believe, have faith, and then 
Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen! 
Salvation's free, we tell! we tell!" 
Shouted the Methodistic bell. 

" In after life there is no hell ! " 
In raptures rang a cheerful hell 
" Look up to heaven this holy day, 
Where angels wait to lead the way ; 
There are no fires, no fiends to blight 
The future life ; be just and right. 
No hell! no hell! no hell ! no hell!" 
Rang out the Universalist bell. 

"All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell 
Close by the cross ! " exclaimed a bell ; 
"Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, 
And deign to bless a world like this; 
Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 
Adore the water and the wine ! 



190 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

All hail ye saints, the chorus swell l" 
Chimed in the Roman Catholic bell. 

" Ye workers who have toiled so well, 

To save the race ! " said a sweet bell ; 

" With pledge, and badge, and banner, come, 

Each brave heart beating like a drum j 

Be royal men of noble deeds, 

For love is holier than creeds ; 

Drink from the well, the well, the well," 

In rapture rang the Temperance bell. 



CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 

England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, 
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad 

day; 
And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden 

fair, 
He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, 

floating hair; 
He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so 

cold and white, 
Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not 

ring to-night." 

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the 

prison old, 
With its walls so dark and gloomy, — walls so dark, and 

damp, and cold, — 
"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, 
At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. 
Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew 

strangely white, 
As she spoke in husky whispers, " Curfew must not ring 

to-night." 

u Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton — every word pierced 

her young heart 
Like a thousand gleaming arrows — like a deadly poisoned 

dare j 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER- 191 

"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy 

shadowed tower ; 
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; 
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, 
Now I'm old, I will not miss it ; girl, the Curfew rings 

to-night!" 

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her 

thoughtful brow, 
And within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn 

vow ; 
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or 

sigh, 
"At the ringing of the Curfew — Basil Underwood must 

die. 9 ' 
And her breath came fast and faster, and her e} r es grew 

large and bright — 
One low murmur, scarcely spoken — " Curfew must not ring 

to-night ! " 

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the 

old church door, 
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft 

before ; 
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and 

brow aglow, 
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to 

and fro : 
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray 

of light, 
Upward still, her pale lips saying: "Curfew shall not 

ring to-night." 

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the 

great dark bell, 
And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down 

to hell ; 
See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of 

Curfew now — 
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath 

and paled her brow. 



192 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Shall she let it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with 

sudden light, 
As she springs and grasps it firmly — " Curfew shall not 

ring to-night !" 

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck helow ; 
There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell 

swung to and fro; 
And the half-deaf Sexton ringing (years he had not heard 

the bell,) 
And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's 

funeral knell; 
Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale 

and white, 
Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating — "Curfew 

shall not ring to-night." 

It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden 

stepped once more 
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years 

before 
Human foot had not been planted; and what she this 

night had done, 
Should be told in long years after — as the rays of setting 

sun 
Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with heads 

of white, 
Tell their children why the Curfew did not ring that one 

sad night. 

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bessie saw him, 

and her brow, 
Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden 

beauty now ; 
At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised 

and torn ; 
And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad 

and worn, 
Touched his heart with sudden pity — lit his eyes with 

misty light; 
" Go, your lover lives!" cried Cromwell; " Curfew shall 

not ring to-night." 



THE LAWRENCE ItECITER. 193 



BEAUTIFUL SNOW.* 

(.J. W. WATSON.) 

Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow, 
Filling the sky and the earth below; 
Over the house-tops, over the street, 
Over the heads of the people you meet; 
Dancing, 

Flirting, 

Skimming along. 
Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong. 
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; 
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. 
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, 
Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! 

Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow ! 
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go: 
Whirling about in its maddening fun, 
It plays in its glee with every one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying by, 
It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; 
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, 
Snap at the crystals that eddy around. 
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow 
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 

How the wild crowd goes swaying along, 
Hailing each other with humor and song ! 
How the gay sledges like meteors flash by — 
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye. 
Kinging, ^ 

Swinging, 

Dashing they go 
Over the crest of the beautiful snow : 



♦Copied, with permission, from the complete illustrated edition 
of " Beautiful Snow and other Poems," twenty-six in all, 
written by J. W. Watson, and published in one large volume 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. 
13 



194 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, 
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by; 
To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet 
Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. 

Once I was pure as the snow — but I fell : 
Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven — to hell; 
Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street : 
Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat. 
Pleading, 

Cursing, 

Dreading to die, 
Selling my soul to whoever would buy, 
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, 
Hating the living and fearing the dead. 
Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? 
And yet I was once like this beautiful snow. 

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, 
With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow; 
Once I was loved for my innocent grace — 
Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters all, 
God, and myself, I have lost by my fall. 
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by 
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh; 
For of all that is on or about me, I know 
There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow. 

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow 
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! 
How strange it would be, when the night comes again, 
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! 
Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying alone, 
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan 
To be heard in the crash of the crazy town 
Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down 
To lie and to die in my terrible woe. 
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 195 



THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 

No, children, my trips are over, 

The engineer needs rest; 
My hand is shaky ; I'm feeling 

A tugging pain i' my breast ; 
But here, as the twilight gathers, 

I'll tell you a tale of the road, 
That'll ring in my head forever, 

Till it rests beneath the sod. 

We were lumbering along in the twilight, 
The night was dropping her shade, 

And the "Gladiator" labored- 
Climbing the top of the grade ; 

The train was heavily laden, 
So I let my engine rest, 

Climbing the grading slowly, 

Till we reached the upland's crest. 

I held my watch to the lamplight — 

Ten minutes behind the time ! 
Lost in the slackened motion 

Of the up grade's heavy climb; 
But I knew the miles of the prairie 

That stretched a level track, 
So I touched the gauge of the boiler, 

And pulled the lever back. 

Over the rails a-gleaming, 

Thirty an hour, or so, 
The engine leaped like a demon, 

Breathing a tier} 7 glow ; 
But to me — ahoid of the lever — 

It seemed a child alway, 
Trustful and always ready 

My lightest touch to obey. 

I was proud, you know, of my engine, 
Holding it steady that night, 



196 THE LAWKKXCE RECITER. 

And my e}^e on the track before us, 
Ablaze with the Drummond light. 

We n eared a well-known cabin, 
Where a child of three or four, 

As the up train passed, oft called me, 
A playing around the door. 

My hand was firm on the throttle 

As we swept around the curve, 
When something afar in the shadow, 

Struck fire through every nerve. 
I sounded the brakes, and crashing 

The reverse lever down in dismay, 
Groaning to Heaven — eighty paces 

Ahead was the child at its play! 

One instant — one, awful and only, 

The world flew round in my brain, 
And I smote my hand hard on my forehead 

To keep back the terrible pain ; 
The train I thought flying forever, 

With mad irresistible roll, 
While the cries of the dying, the night wind 

Swept into my shuddering soul. 

Then I stood on the front of the engine, — 

How I got there I never could tell, — 
My feet planted down on the crossbar. 

Where the cowcatcher slopes to the rail, 
One hand firmly locked on the coupler, 

And one held out in the night, 
While my eye gauged the distance, and measured 

The speed of our slackening flight. 

My mind, thank the Lord ! it was steady; 

I saw the curls of her hair, 
And the face that, turning in wonder 

Was lit by the deadly glare. 
I know little more — but 1 heard it — 

The groan of the anguished wheels, 
And remember thinking — the engine 

In agony trembles and reels. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER- 197 

One rod! To the day of my dying 

I shall think the old engine reared back, 
And as it recoiled with a shudder, 

I swept my hand over the track; 
Then darkness fell over my eyelids, 

But I heard the surge of the train, 
And the poor old engine creaking, 

As racked by a deadly pain. 

They found us, they said, on the gravel, 

My fingers enmeshed in her hair, 
And she on my bosom a-climbing, 

To nestle securely there. 
We are not much given to crying — 

We men that run on the road — 
But that night, they said, there were faces, 

With tears on them, lifted to God. 

For years in the eve and the morning 

As I neared the cabin again, 
My hand on- -the lever pressed downward 

And slackened the speed of the train. 
When my engine had blown her a greeting, 

She always would come to the door; 
And her look with a fullness of heaven 

Blesses me evermore. 



THE VISION OF THE MONK GABKIEL. 

(ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.) 

Listen to what befell 
Monk Gabriel, 
In the old ages ripe with mystSry — 

A bearded man with grave, but gentle look — 
His silence sweet with sounds 

With which the simple-hearted spring abounds; 

Lowing of cattle from the abbey grounds, 
Chirping of insect, and the building rock- 
Mingled like murmurs of a dreaming shell; 



198 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Quaint tracery of bird, and branch, and brook. 
Flitting across the pages of his book, 
Until the very words a freshness took?— 
Deep in his cell 
Sat the monk Gabriel. 

In his book he read 
The words the Master to His dear ones said : 

" A little while and ye 
Shall see, 

Shall gaze on Me ; 

A little while again, 

Ye shall not see Me then." 
A little while! 
The monk looked up — a smile 
Making his visage brilliant, liquid-eyed: 
"Thou who gracious art 
Unto the poor of heart, 
O blessed Christ ! " he cried, 

" Great is the misery 

Of mine iniquity ; 
But would I now might see, 
Might feast on Thee ! " 
— The blood with sudden start, 
Nigh rent his veins apart — 
(Oh condescension of the Crucified :) 

In all the brilliancy 

Of his humanity — 
The Christ stood by his side ! 

Pure as the early lily was His skin, 
His cheek out-blushed the rose, 

His lips, the glows 
Of autumn sunset on -eternal snows; 

And His deep eyes within, 
Such nameless beauties, wondrous glories dwelt, 
The monk in speechless adoration knelt. 
In each fair hand, in each fair foot there shone 
The peerless stars He took from Calvary; 
Around His brows in tenderest lucency 
The thorn marks lingered, like the flash of dawn j 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 199 

And from the opening in His side there rilled 
A light, so dazzling, that all the room was filled 
With heaven; and transfigured in his place, 

His very breathing stilled, 
The friar held his robe before his face, 

And heard the angels singing ! 

'Twas but a moment — then, upon the spell 
Of this sweet presence, lo ! a something broke : 
A something trembling, in the belfry woke, 

A shower of metal music flinging 
O'er wold and moat, o'er park and lake and fell, 
And through the open windows of the cell 
In silver chimes came ringing. 

It was the bell 

Calling monk Gabriel, 

Unto his holy task, 
To feed the paupers at the abbey gate; 

No respite did he ask, 
Nor for a second summons idly wait ; 
But rose up, saying in his humble way; 

" Fain would I stay, 

Lord ! and feast alway 
Upon the honeyed sweetness of thy beauty ; 
But His Thy will, not mine. I must obey. 

Help me to do my duty ! " 

The while the Vision smiled, 
The monk went forth, light-hearted as a child. 

An hour hence, his duty nobly done, 

Back to his cell he came ; 
Unasked, unsought, lo! his reward was won! 

— Rafters and walls and floor were yet aflame 
With all the matchless glory of that sun, 
And in the centre stood the Blessed One 

(Praise be His Holy Name !) 
Who for our sakes our crosses made His own, 
And bore our weight of shame. 

Down on the threshold fell 
Monk Gabriel, 



200 THE LAWRKNCE RECITER. 

His forehead pressed upon the floor of clay 
And while in deep humility he lay, 
(Tears raining from his happy eyes away) 
Whence is this favor, Lord ? " he strove to say. 

The Vision only said, 
Lifting its shining head ; 
"If thou hadst staid, son, / must have fled!" 



HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY.* 

(CHARLES G. LELAND — u HANS BREITM ANN," ) 

Hans Brettmann gife a harty, 

Dey had hiano-blayin ; 
I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau, 

Her name vas Madilda Yane. 
She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel, 

Her eyes vas himmel-plue, 
Und ven dey looket in do mine, 

Dey shplit mine iieart in two. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

I vent dere voir 11 pe pound. 
I valtzet mit Madilda Yme 

Und vent shpinnen round und round. 
De pootiest Fraeulein in de House, 

She rayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, 
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp 

She make de vindows sound. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty, 

I dells you it cost him dear. 
Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks 

Of t'oosr-rate Lager Beer. 
Und reliefer dey knocks de shpicketin 

De Deutschers gifes a cheer. 

•Copied, with permission, from the complete edition of "Hans 
Breitmann's Ballads," fifty-six in all, written by Charles Gk 
Lelaucl, (*' Hans Breitmann,") published in one large volume by 
Ti b. Peterson & brothers, Philadelphia. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 201 

I dinks dat so vine a barty, 
Nefer coom to a het dis year. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty; 

Dere all vas Souse and B rouse, 
Yen de sooper coomed in. de gompany 

Did make demselfs to house ; 
Dey ate das. Brot and Gensy broost, 

De Bratwurst and Brateu fine, 
Und vasli der Abendessen down 

Mit four barrels of Neckarwein. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty 

We all cot troonk as bigs. 
I poot mine moufc to a parrel of bier 

Und emptied it oop mit a sen wigs. 
Und den I gissed Madilda Yane 

Und she shlog me on de kop, 
Und de gompany fited mit daple-leeks 

Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop. 

Hans Breitmann gife a barty — 

Where ish dat barty now ! 
Where ish de lofely golden cloud 

Dat float on de moundain's prow? 
Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern — 

De shtar of de shpirit's light? 
All goned afay mit de Lager Beer — 

Afay in de ewigkeit ! - 



THE DEACON'S STORY. 

(N. S. EMERSON.) 

The solemn old bells in the steeple 

Are ringin'. I guess you know why, 
No? Well, then, I'll tell you, though mostly 

It's whispered about on the sly. 
Some six weeks ago, a church meetin' 

Was called — for — nobody knew what ; 
But we went, and the parson was present, 

And I don't know who or who not. 



202 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Some twenty odd members, I calculate, 

Which mostly was women, of course ; 
Though I don't mean to say aught ag'in 'em ; 

I've seen many gathering worse. 
There, in the front row, sat the deacons, 

The eldest was old Deacon Pryor — 
A man countin' fourscore-and-seven, 

And gin'rally full of his ire. 

Beside him, his wife, countin' fourscore, 

A kind-hearted, motherly soul ; 
And next to her young Deacon Hartley, 

A good Christian man on the whole. 
Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty, 

And long ago laid on the shelf, 
Had wedged herself next ; and beside her, 

Was Deacon Munroe— -that's myself. 

The meetin' was soon called to ordor, 

The parson looked glum as a text; 
We gazed at each other in silence, 

And silently wondered "What next!" 
Then slowly uprose Deacon Hartley; 

His voice seemed to tremble with fear 
As he said : " Boy and man you have known me, 

My good friends, for nigh forty year. 

" And you scarce may expect a confession 

Of error from me ; but — you know, 
My dearly loved wife died last Christmas, 

It's now nearly ten months ago. 
The winter went by long and lonely, 

The spring hurried forward a-pace; 
The farm-work came on, and I needed 

A woman about the old place. 

"The children were wilder than rabbits, 
And still growing worse every day; 

No help to be found in the village, 
Although I was will in' to pay. 

In fact, I was nigh 'bout discouraged 
For everything looked so forlorn; 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 203 

When good little Patience McAlpine 
Skipped into our kitchen, one morn. 

" She had only run in of an errand ; 

But she laughed at our miserable plight, 
And set to work, just like a woman, 

A putting the whole place to right. 
And though her own folks was so busy, 

And illy her helpin' could spare, 
She flit in and out like a sparrow, 

And most every day she was there. 

"So the Summer went by sort o' cheerful, 

And one night my baby, my Joe, 
Seemed feverish and fretful, and woke me 

By crying, at midnight, you know. 
I was tired with my day's work and sleepy, 

And couldn't no way keep him still ; 
So, at last I grew angry, and spanked him, 

And then he screamed out with a will. 

"Just about then I heard a soft rapping, 

Away at the half-open door; 
And then little Patience McAlpine 

Walked shyly across the white floor. 
Says she: 'I thought Josey was cryin', 

I guess I'd best take him away. 
I knew you'd be gettin'* up early 

To go to the marshes for hay, 
So I stayed here to-night to get breakfast; 

I guess he'll be quiet with me. 
Come, Josey, kiss papa, and tell him 

What a nice little man you will be !" 
She was stooping low over the pillow, 

And saw the big tears on his cheek; 
Her face was so close to my whiskers, 

I darsn't move, scarcely, or speak ; 
Her hands were both hold'n' the baby, 

Her eye by his shoulder was hid; 
But her mouth was so near and so rosy, 

I — kissed her. That's just what 1 did." 



204 THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 

Then down sat the tremblin' sinner, 

The sisters they murmured of "shame," 
And "she shouldn't oughter a let him, 

No doubt she was mostly to blame." 
When straightway uprose Deacon Pryor, 

"Now bretherin and sisters," he said, 
(We knowed then that suthin' wascomin/ 

And all sot as still as the dead), 
"You've heard brother Hartley's confession, 

And I speak for myself when I say. 
That if my wife was dead, and my children 

Were all growin' worse every day; 
And if my house needed attention, 

And Patience McAlpine had come 
And tidied the cluttered up kitchen, 

And made the place seem more like home; 
And if I was worn out and sleepy, 

And my Baby wouldn't lie still, 
But fretted and woke me at midnight, 

As babies, we know, sometimes will ; 
And if Patience came in to hush him, 

And 'twas all as our good brother sez — 
I think, friends — I think I should kiss her, 

And 'bide by the consequences." 

Then down sat the elderly deacon, 

The younger one lifted his face, 
And a smile rippled over the meetm* 

Like light in a shadowy place. 
Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters 

Remembered their far-away youth, 
Or the daughters at home by their firesides 

Shrined each in her shy, modest truth; 
For their judgments grew gentle and kindly, 

And — well — as I started to say, 
The solemn old balls in the steeple 

Are riugin' a britial to-day. 



Fire and water, oil and vinegar, heat and cold, light and 
darkness, are not more opposed to each other, than is 
honesty to fraud, or vice to virtue. 



THE LAWK EXCE RECITER. 205 

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE. 

(george croly.) 

Conscript Fathers: 
I do not rise to waste the night in words; 
Let that Plebeian talk, 'tis not my trade ; 
But here I stand for right. — let him show proofs, — 
For Roman right, though none, it seems, dare stand 
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there! 
Cling to your master, judges, Romans, slaves! 
His charge is false; — I dare him to his proofs. 
You have my answer. Let my actions speak ! 

But this I will avow, that I have scorned 
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong. 
Who brands me on the forehead, breaks my sword, 
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back, 
Wrongs me not half so much as he who shuts 
The gates of honor on me, — turning out 
The Roman from his birthright; and for what? 

To fling your offices to every slave ! 
Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb, 
And, having wound their loathsome track to the top 
Of this huge, mouldering monument of Rome, 
Hang hissing at the nobler man below. 

Come, consecrated Lietors, from your thrones ; 

{To the Senate.) 
Fling down } r our sceptres ; take the rod and axe, 
And make the murder as you make the law. 

Banished from Rome ! What's banished, but set free 
From daily contact of the things I loathe ? 
" Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this? 
Who r ll prove it, at his peril, on my head? 
Banished ! I thank you for't. It breaks my chain ! 
I held some slack allegiance till this hour; 
But noiv my sword's my own. Smile on. my Lords! 
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, 
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, 
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, 
To leave you in your lazy dignities. 



206 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

But here I stand and scoff you ! here I fling 
Hatred and full defiance in your face ! 
Your Consul's merciful ; — for this, all thanks. 
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline! 

" Traitor ! " I go ; bat, I return I This— trial ! 
Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs 
To stir a fever in the blood of age, 
Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel. 
This day's the birth of sorrow ; this hour's work 
Will breed proscriptions ! Look to your hearths, my 

Lords ! 
For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods, 
Shapes hot from Tartarus; all shames and crimes; 
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn; 
Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup ; 
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, 
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones; 
Till Anarchy comes down on you like night, 
And Massacre sepals Rome's eternal grave. 

I go ; but not to leap the £ulf al<>ne. 
I go; but when I come, 'twill be the burst 
Of ocean in the earthquake, — rolling back 
In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well ! 
You build my funeral-pile ; but your best blood 
Shall quench its flame ! Back, slaves ! (To the Lictors.) 
I will return. 



THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY. 
(frank olive.) 

Well, No ! My wife ain't dead, sir, but I've lost her all 

the same ; 
She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame. 
It's rather a queer story, and 1 think you will agree — 
When you hear the circumstances — 'twas rather rough 

on me. 

She was a soldier's widow. He was killed at Malvern Hill; 
And when 1 married her she seemed to sorrow for him still; 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 207 

But I brought her here to Kansas, and I never want to see 
A better wife than Mary w T as for five bright years to me. 

The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a 

rosy glow 
Of happiness warmed Mary's cheeks and melted all 

their snow. 
I think she loved me some — I'm bound to think that of 

her, sir, 
And as for me — I can't begin to tell how I loved her ! 

Three years ago the baby came our humble home to bless ; 
And then I reckon I was nigh to perfect happiness ; 
'Twas hers — 'twas mine — ; but I've no language to explain 

to you, 
How that little girl's weak fingers our hearts together drew ! 

Once we watched it through a fever, and with each 

gasping breath, 
Dumb with an awful, wordless woe, we waited for its death ; 
And, though I'm not a pious man, our souls together there, 
For Heaven to spare our darling, went up in voiceless 

prayer. 

And when the doctor said 'twould live, our joy what words 

could tell ? 
Clasped in each other's arms, our grateful tears together fell. 
Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our little nest. 
But it only made the sunshine seem a doubly welcome 

guest. 

Work came to me a plenty, and I kept the anvil ringing; 
Early and late you'd find me there a hammering and 

singing ; 
Love nerved my arm to labor, and moved my tongue to 

song, 
And though my singing wasn^t sweet, it was tremendous 

strong ! 

One day a one-armed stranger stopped to have me nail a 

shoe, 
And while I was at work, we passed a compliment or two; 



203 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

I asked him how he lost his arm. He said 'twas shot away 
At Malvern Hill. "At Malvern Hill! Did you know 
Eobert May?" 

"That's me," said he. "You, you!" I gasped, choking 

with horrid doubt ; 
u If you're the man, just follow me ; we'll try this mystery 

out ! " 
With dizzy steps, I led him to Mary. God ! 'Twas true ! 
Then the bitterest pangs of misery, unspeakable, I knew. 

Frozen with deadly horror, she stared with eyes of stone, 
And from her quivering lips there broke one wild, 

despairing moan. 
'Twas he ! the husband of her youth, now risen from the 

dead. 
But all too late — and with one bitter cry, her senses fled. 

What could be done ? He was reported dead. On his return 
He strove in vain some tidings of his absent wife to learn. 
'Twas well that he was innocent ! Else I'd have killed 

him, too, 
So dead he never would have riz till Gabriel's trumpet blew ! 

It was agreed that Mary then between us should decide, 
And each by her decision would sacredly abide. 
No sinner, at the judgment seat, waiting eternal doom, 
Could suffer what 1 did, while waiting sentence in that 
room. 

Rigid and breathless, there we stood, with nerves as tense 

as steel, 
While Mary's eye sought each white face, in piteous appeal. 
God! could not woman's duty be less hardly reconciled 
Between her lawful husband and the father of her child? 

Ah, how my heart was chilled to ice, when she knelt 

down and said : 
u Forgive me, John! He is my husband ! Here! Alive! 

not dead ! " 
I raised her tenderly, and tried to tell her she was right, 
But somehow, in my aching breast, the prisoned words 

stuck ti <rli t ! 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 209 

"But, John, I can't leave baby" — "What! wife and 

child!" cried F; 
" Must I yield all ! Ah, cruel fate ! Better that I should 

die. 
Think of the long, sad, lonely hours, waiting in gloom 

for me — 
No wife to cheer me with her love — no babe to climb my 

knee ! 

"And yet — you are her mother, and the sacred mother lovo 
Is still the purest, tenderest tie that Heaven ever wove. 
Take her, but promise, Mary — for that will bring no 

shame — 
My little girl shall bear, and learn to lisp her father's 

name ! " 

It may be, in the life to come, I'll meet my child and wife; 
But yonder, by my cottage gate, we parted for this life; 
One long hand-clasp from Mary, and my dream of love 

was done ! __ 
One long embrace from baby, and my happiness was gone I 



SCHNITZEEL'S PHILOSOPEDE* 

(" HANS BREITMANN," — CHARLES G. LELAND.) 

Herr Schxitzerl make a philosopede, 

Von of de pultyest kind ; 
It vent mitout a vheel in front, 

And hadn't none pehind. 
Von vheel vas in de mittel, dough, 

And it vent as sure as ecks, 
For he shtraddled on de axle dree 

Mit de vheel petween his leeks. 

Und ven he vant to shtart id off 

He paddlet mit his veet, 
Und soon he cot to go so vast 

Dat avery dings he peat. 

* Copied, with permission, from the complete edition of 
"Hans Breitmann's Ballads," fifty-six in all. published in 
one large volume by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, PhilaJelphia. 
14 



210 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

He run her out on Broader sli treed, 

He shkeeted like der vind, 
Hei ! how he bassed de vancy crabs, 

And lef dem all pehind ! 

De vellers mit de trottin nags 

Pooled oop to see him bass; 
De Deutschers all erstaunished saidt : 

" Potztausend ! Was ist das ? " 
Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed 

On — mit a ghastly smile ; 
He tidn't tooch de dirt, py shings ! 

Not vonce in half a mile. 

Oh, vot ish all dis eartly pliss ? 

Oh, vot ish man's soocksess ? 
Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings? 

Und vot ish hobbiness? 
Ve find a pank-node in de shtreedt, 

Next dings der pank is preak ; 
Ve foils, und knocks our outsides in, 

Ven ve a ten shtrike make. 

So vas it mit der Schnitzerl ein 

On his philosopede. 
His feet both sh lipped outside ward shoost 

Vhen at his extra shpeed. 
He felled oopon der vheel of course; 
s De vheel like blitzen flew ; 

Und Schnitzerl he vas schnitz in vact 

For id shlished him grod in two. 

Und as for his philosopede, 

Id cot so shkared, men say, 
It pounded onward till it vent 

Ganz teuf el wards afay. 
Boot rhere ish now de Sehnitzerl's soul? 

Vhere docs his shbirit pide? 
In Iliinmel troo de entless plue, 

.It takes a medeor ride. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 211 
THE MANIAC. 

(MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS.) 

Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe ! 

She is not mad who kneels to thee ; 
For what I'm now too well I know, 

And what I was, and what should be. 
I'll rave no more in proud despair; 

My language shall be mild, though sad; 
But yet I firmly, truly swear, 

I am not mad, I am not mad! 

My tyrant husband forged the tale 

Which chains me in this dismal cell; 
My fate unknown my friends bewail, — 

jailer, haste that fate to tell ! 
Oh, haste my fathers heart to cheer! 

His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad! 
To know, though kept a captive here, 

1 am not mad, I am not mad I 

He smiles in scorn, and turns the key; 

He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; 
His glimmering lamp stilly still I see,— 

'Tis gone! and all is gloom again. 
Cold, bitter cold ! — ]S T o warmth ! no light ! 

Life, all thy comforts once I had ; 
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night, 

Although not mad ; no, no, — not mad ! 

'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain, 

What! I, the child of rank and wealth,— 
Am /the wretch who clanks this chain, 

Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? 
Ah ! while I dwell on blessings lied, 

Which nevermore my heart must glad, 
How aches my heart, how burns my headj 

liut 'tis not mad ; no, 'tis nut mad! 



212 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, 

A mother's face, a mother's tongue? 
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss, 

Nor round her neck how fast you clung; 
Nor how with her you sued to stay; 

Nor how that suit your sire forbade; 
Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away ; 

They'll make me mad; they'll make me mad! 

His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! 

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone! 
None ever bore a lovelier child, 

And art thou now forever gone ? 
And must I never see thee more, 

My pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? 
I will be free ! unbar the door ! 

I am not mad ; I am not mad! 

Oh, hark ! what mean those j'-ells and cries? 

His chains some furious madman breaks; 
He comes, — I see his glaring eyes ; 

Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. 
Help ! Help ! — He's gone ! — Oh, fearful woe, 

Such screams to hear, such sights to see! 
My brain, my brain, — I know, I know 

Jam not mad, but soon shall be. 

Yes, soon ; — for, lo you ! — while I speak,— 

Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare I 
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek, 

He whirls a serpent high in air. 
Horror! — the reptile strikes his tooth 

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad; 
Ay, laugh, }^e fiends; — I feel the truth ; 

Your task is done, — I'm mad ! I'm mad ! 



The soul of eloquence is the center of the human 
bouI itself, which, enlightened by the rays of an idea, 
or warmed ttfhd stirred by an impression, flashes or bursts 
forth to manifest, by some sign or other, what it feels 
or sees. 



THE LAWKENCE RECITER. 213 
SCHNEIDERS REDE. 

(GUS PHILLIPS.) 

From agroos der rifer, ad der broke of day, 

Bringin' of Brooklyn vresh dismay, 

Der noos vas broughd by a Dootchrnan dhrue, 

Dot der officers of der refenue 

Voult be ofer in less as a' hour or two, 

To confersehkate all der vhiskey dher got 

In Schneider's blace, or near dot sphot. 

Und vilder yet der roomers flew, 

Dill Schneider didn't know vhat ter do; 

So he glosed der door, und he barr't 'em dight, 

Saying, "Dhey may hammer avay mit all dheir might} 

But ofe dhey got in, dhen ve shall see, 

Vhich vas der shmartest — dhem or me." 

For a' hour or dhree no resht he got, 

Shtill Schneider shtayed right on der shpot. 

But dhere is a shtreed in Brooklyn town, 

Dot ishn't bafed — dot leads right down 

To Coney Island ; und vot ish more, 

It's a voonder dot nefer vas used pefore — 

It vas right in vrondt of der back of der shtore ; 

Und dhere on dot shtreed vos nine drucks und a card, 

All loaded mit vhiskey und ready to shtard; 

Dhey' re most all loaded, und Schneider ish gay, 

For in ten minutes he'll be more as a mile avay. 

Dhey 're ofe. und nodings ish left ter show 

Vich vay dhey made up dheir mints ter go; 

Efery dhinks ish mofed, yet not a sound 

But der noise of der wheels agoin' around, 

Ash so swiftly dhey go ofer der ground ; 

Und Schneider turns round und says, " Good-day, 

For now he vas more as fife miles avay. 

Shtill shumps der horses, shtill on dhey go, 
Und der vay dhey mofes dot ishn't shlow; 



214 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Dhey're goin* down hill, und faster und faster 

Dhey're drifen aheadt by Schneider, dheir master, 

Who sh tucks to 'em now like a poor-man's blaster; 

For veil he knows dot if now he vas dook't, 

He could make up his mint dot his goose vas gooked- 

So efrey muscles he prings in blay, 

'Cause dhey ain'd any more as ten miles avay. 

Under dheir vlyin' hoofs der roat 

Like a great big mud-gutter dot flowed, 

Und efen the flies dot corned from town, 

Got tired at last, und had to lay down 

Und dook a shmall resht on der ground ; 

For Schneider und der horses dhey vent so fast 

Dot efen der flies gifed out at last; 

Und der dust vas thick und der horses vas gray, 

Und Schneider vas fifteen miles avay. 

Der very first dhing vhat Schneider saw 

Vas der sant, dhen he heard der ocean roar; 

He shmelt der salt in de good old preezes 

Vhat wafed ofer vhere dhere vashn't some dreeses, 

Und his heart velt glad und his shpirits vas gay, 

Und der very horses dhem seemed to say : 

u Ve prings you, Schneider, all der vay 

From Jrishtown, und safe der vhiskey, 

But 'pon our vorts, it vas rader risky ! " 

Den hurra)) ! hurrah ! for Schneider dhrue, 
Und hurrah ! hurrah ! for der horses too! 
Und vhen der sh adders vas high und dry, 
Let some bully boy mit a groekery eye 
Get up on der top of a parrel und gry — - 
"Dhese ish der horses vhat safed der day 
By cartin' dot vishkey und Schneider avay 
From Lrishtown, dweady miles avay ! " 



What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted!* 
thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just; and he 
but naked, though locked up in steel, whose conscience 
with injustice is corrupted. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 215 

THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. 

(COATES.) 

Dark is the night ! How dark ! No light : No fire ! 
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire ! 
Shivering, she watches, by the cradle side, 
For him, who pledged her love — last year a bride ! 

a Hark ! 'Tis his footstep ! No !— 'tis past !— 'tis gone !" 
Tick ! — Tick ! — " How wearily the time crawls on ! 
Why should he leave me thus ? — He once was kind ! 
And I believed 'twould last ! — How mad ! — How blind ! 

" Rest thee, my babe ! — Rest on ! — 'Tis hunger's cry ! 
Sleep ! — For there is no food ! — The font is dry ! 
Famine and cold their wearying work have done. 
My heart must break ! And thou ! " The clock strikes one. 

" Hush ! 'tis the dice-box ! Yes ! he's there ! he's there f 
For this — for this he leaves me to despair ! 
Leaves love ! leaves truth ! his wife ! his child ! for what? 
The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot ! 

" Yet I'll not curse him. No ! 'tis all in vain ! 

'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again ! 

And I could starve, and bless him, but for you, 

My child ! — his child ! Oh, fiend ! " The clock strikes two. 

" Hark ! How the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by. 
Moan ! moan ! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky! 
Ha ! 'tis his knock ! he comes ! — he comes once more ! "■ 
'Tis but the lattice flaps ! Thy hope is o'er ! 

"Can he desert us thus? He know r s I stay, 
Night after night, in loneliness, to pray 
For his return — and yet he sees no tear ! 
No ! no ! It cannot be ! He will be here ! 

"Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart ! 

Thou'rt cold! Thou'rt freezing ! But we will not part! 

Husband ! — I die — Father ! — It is not he ! 

Oh, God ! protect my child ! " The clock strikes three ! 



216 THE LAWRENCE KECITER. 

They're gone, they're gone ! the glimmering spark hath 

fled!— 
The wife and child are number'd with the dead. 
On the cold earth, outstretch'd in solemn rest, 
The babe lay, frozen on its mother's breast : 
The gambler came at last — but all was o'er — 
Dread silence reigned around : — the clock struck four ! 



THE BATTLE. 

(TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER BY BULWKR.) 

Heavy and solemn, 

A cloudy column. 
Through the green plain they marching came! 
Measureless spread, like a table dread, 
For the wild grim dice of the iron game. 
Looks are bent on the shaking ground, 
Hearts beat low with a knelling sound ; 
Swift by the breast that must bear the brunt, 
Gallops the Major along the front ; — 

"Halt!" 
And fettered they stand at the stark command, 
And the warriors, silent, halt. 

Proud in the blush of morning glowing, 

What on the hill-top shines in flowing ? 

"See you the foeman's banners waving?" 

u We see the foeman's banners waving ! [' 

"God be with you, children and wife !" 

Hark to the music — the drum and fife — 

How they ring through the ranks, which they rouse to 

the strife ! 
Thrilling they sound, with their glorious tone, — 
Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone! 
"Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, 
In the life to come that we meet once more ! " 

See the smoke, how the lightening is cleaving asunder! 
Hark! the K ,ms > p ea -l on peal, how they boom in their 
thunder ! 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 217 

From host to host with kindling sound, 
The shouted signal circles round ; 
Freer already breathes the breath ! 
The war is waging, slaughter raging, 
And heavy through the reeking pall 
The iron death-dice fall ! 
Nearer they close — foes upon foes — 
'* Fire ! " — from square to square it goes. 

They kneel as one man from flank to flank, 
And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank. 
Many a soldier to earth is sent, 
Many a gap by the balls is rent; 
O'er the corpse before springs the hinder man, 
That the line may not fall to the fearless van. 
To the right, to the left, and around and around, 
Death whirls in its dance on th»* bloody ground. 
God's sunlight is quenched in the fiery fight, 
Over the hosts falls a brooding night ! 
"Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, 
In the life to come me may meet once more." 

The dead men are bathed in the weltering blood, 

And the living are blent in the slippery flood, 

And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go, 

Stumble still on the corpse that sleeps below. 

" What ? Francis ! "— " Give Charlotte my last farewell." 

As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell — 

"I'll give — Oh God! are the guns so near? 

Ho! comrades! yon •olley! look sharp to the rear! 

I'll give to thy Charlotte thy last farewell ! 

Sleep soft! where death thickest &* scendeth in rain, 

The friend thou forsake th thy side may regain !" 

Hitherward, thitherward reels the tight; 

Dark and more darkly day glooms into night. 

"Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, 

In the life to come that we meet once more \ n 

Hark to the hoofs that galloping go! 

The adjutants flying — 
The horsemen press hard on the panting foe, 

Their thunder booms in dying — 

Victory ! 



218 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Terror has seized on the dastards all, 
And their colors fall ! 

Victory ! 
Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight ; 
And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night! 
Trumpet and fife swelling choral along, 
The triumph already sweeps marching in song. 
ki Farewell, fallen brothers ; though this life be o'er, 
There's another, in which we shall meet you once more ! " 



STRIKE FOR YOUR NATIVE LAND. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

Hark ! Europe's Tyrants with their countless host 
Of veteran warriors, land upon our coast ; 
Rise fellow men ! each with a freeman's might, 
And grasp your weapons for the glorious fight. 

Strike for your Native Land ! 

Avenge your Country's wrongs ! 

Come from the North, where freedom sits enthroned, 
Come from the South, where liberty has roamed, 
Come from the East, and from the Western land, 
And join your brothers in the " Patriots' Band." 

Strike for your Native Land ! 

Avenge your Country's wrongs! 

Come Southern Chivalry, and hand in band, 
With Northern Puritans like brothers stand, 
And once again, as in the days of yore, 
Hurl the Invaders lifeless to the shore. 

Strike for your Native Land ! 

Avenge your Country's wrongs ! 

Come Mountain Boys, sons of heroic sires, 
Come Western Men, whom liberty inspires, 
Virginia's Sons, answer your country's cry, 
And swear to save your own dear land, or die ! 

Strike for your Native Land ! 

Avenge your Country's wrongs! 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 219 

Sons of Columbia, come from every State, 
Stay not to parley, lest you be too late, 
Grasp the bright rifle in your brave right hand, 
And crush the Invaders of your Noble Land ! 

Strike for your Native Land ! 

Avenge your Country's wrongs! 

Rise for the land of beauty and of worth ! 
Arm for your land, the glory of the earth! 
Fight for the land of liberty this day! 
And Victory shall round your banners play ! 

Strike for your Native Land ! 

Avenge your Country's wrongs ! 



ELOQUENCE. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

Eloquence is the most glorious gift bestowed by God 
upon man. By this noble art, Nations have been made 
free; Christianity has been extended over the greater 
part of the earth ; Cities and Countries have become 
renowned from being the birthplace of the "Children of 
Genius," whose names are household words in the land 
of their birth. 

When Greece and Rome were in their glory, Eloquence 
was studied and cultivated by all who aspired to honor 
and distinction. 

In the golden days of Greece, Peiides not only adorned 
Athens with Paintings, Statuary, and magnificent Public 
Buildings, but he also glorified it by Ins sublime eloquence. 

Cicero saved Rome by his Orations against Catiline. 
What roused the noblest emotions in the breasts of our 
Forefathers, and caused them to dare all and do all for 
their country's freedom ? The burning words of Patrick 
Henry ! 

When the eloquent speaker puts all the powers of his 
art into requisition, the voice with its exquisite modula- 
tions, the vy^s which flash with indignation or beam with 
tenderness the graceful gestures of the hands, the <jlow- 
mg impassioned countenance, when every motion speaks, 



220 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

when the whole form swells with inspiration, how wonder- 
ful is the power of his eloquence over the minds of his 
hearers! he compels their attention, he enlists their 
sympathies, he convinces their judgment, and finally he 
sways their feelings and passions as by the wand of an 
enchanter. 

" Speech is a glorious gift — the electric chain, 
Through which the lightning of intelligence 
Transmits its flashes; when the kindling brain 
Would make its visions palpable to sense." 

Every feeling and emotion of the human heart can be 
expressed by the tones of the voice, and as by appropriate 
gesture everything we say can be made clear to the under- 
standing through the sight, so also, by giving every word 
its proper sound, can it be made perfectly intelligible to 
the ear. But as this can be done only by a finished 
reader or orator the living teacher alone can instruct in 
eloquence. Any eloquent youth may aspire to, and will 
be sure to obtain Renown and Fortune ; he may rise from 
the lowest step, to the loftiest pinnacle of Fame. If his 
inclination should be for the possession of the Law, how 
noble the task of advocating the cause of the defrauded 
widow or orphan; of defending the innocent or bringing 
the guilty to justice! If ambitious of fame and distinc- 
tion, how glorious to arouse the spirit of a country to the 
assertion of its rights ! If desirous of becoming a faith- 
ful servant of his God, how sweet to uphold the religion 
of his Maker against the dark and self-immolating doc- 
trines of the unbeliever — how delightful to smooth the 
pillow of the dying, and speak words of peace and pardon 
to the despairing sinner! 

" Softly murmur gentle voices, 

Soothing care and healing woe; 
Bringing to the chastened spirit 

Hopes forgotten long ago. 
Bringing comfort to the dying, 

1 o i he weary giving rest, 
Like the whispering of Angels 

i ii the mansions of the blest." 

Let every Minister of the Gospel, every Lawyer, every 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 221 

Statesman, and every Teacher, diligently study tin's sub- 
lime art, and become not only useful members, but also 
ornaments of Society. 

" Work for some good, be it ever so slowly; 
Labor ! all labor, is noble and holy ! " 



IRON HEARTS BETTER THAN IRON SHIPS. 

One twenty-fourth of April, was a grandly glorious day, 
When Iron Ships and Iron Hearts met in a deadly fray. 
The crimson tints of morning were gleaming in the sky, 
As the gallant fleet moved on, the fate of war to try. 

In our noble oaken ships each man was at his gun, 
Every sailors eye was sparkling for glory to be won, 
Although each heart beat faster, there was no thrill of fear, 
And to the foemen's shot and shell we answered with a 
cheer. 

Our dauntless vessel led the van. our captain we could see 
Spliced to the mast with knotted rope, a hero there sat he! 
He looked as calm as if it were a joyful festal day, 
And bade the helmsman steer the ship into the thickest 
fray. 

The iron ships of the enemy commenced the fierce attack, 
Their chain balls and their iron shot made our oaken 

timbers crack, 
We answered, not until we got right close up to the foe, 
When our brave captain shouted out, "Now, my boys, 

strike the blow." 

Then every gun poured out its fire, down deep their 

gunboat went, 
As if the lightning from the clouds its fiery bolts had sent, 
And where a stout ship was floating a little while before, 
Hot a trace of her was seen, but the waves were red with 

gore. 

Against the next our ship was steered, and struck her 

amidship, 
Just as a wrestler grasps his foe and hurls him o'er his hip, 



222 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

So our steel prowed vessel overthrew the iron plated foe, 
And o'er another sinking ship the rolling waves did flow. 

Then the two fleets were mingled and fought the deadly 

fight, 
The smoke from out the cannons' mouths hid the heavens 

from our sight, 
The thundering roar of mortars and the shrill shriek of 

shell, 
Like Pandemonium made the earth seem to resemble HelL 

While the fight was fiercely raging, ere the victory was 

won, 
A shell stretched on the bloody deck the captain's little 

son, 
While the blood was pouring from his wounds his plaintive 

cry arose, 
" Oh heaven ! I cannot fight again against my country's 

foes." 

When we saw our little hero fall each heart with grief was 

sore, 
Then every man rushed to his gun, and soon the cannon's 

roar, 
Hurled death and ruin on the foe, who scarcely could reply 
A feeble shout, to our loud cheers, ringing triumphantly ! 

Before the day was over we had blotted out their fleet, 
For five we sunk, eleven we took, and made the rest 

retreat ; 
Of twenty ships with which the foe that day began the 

fight, 
Hut four escaped, their battered hulls hid by the wings 

of night. 

Then glory to our gallant tars! the boys who know not 

fear, 
Hurrah for fair Columbia! who such gallant sons doth 

rear, 
Hurrah for the jolly sailors ! who in spite of Death's keen 

darts, 
Proved that Iron Ships were useless when opposed by 

Iron Hearts. 



THE' LAWRENCE KECITER. 223 

NIGHT BURIAL AT SEA. 5 * 

(BY AUTHOR OF " BEAUTIFUL SNOW.") 

The dim lamp swings in the dingy hold 

To the ravings of the storm, 
And the waves are waiting to enfold 

A soldiers lifeless form: 
They are lifting their snow-white fingers up, 

Like spirits of the night, 
And they dance and beckon to our ship 

To stay her onward flight. 

The stars are dimmed with a flying cloud, 

The ship goes heaving past, 
A corse lies wrapped in its homely shroud, 

And the night is going fast. 
We have stretched the flag he has died to serve 

Over his quieted heart, 
And here, with our heads uncovered and bent, 

We silently stand apart. 

We stood but a few short hours agone 

By that d}ang soldier's bed — 
A blanket, battle-stained and worn — 

While a knapsack pillowed his head. 
A rough board under his fleshless limbs, 

And a stranger hand for nurse ; 
His requiem sang by the beating waves, 

A smothered groan or a curse. 

The lanterns swung in the dismal hold 

As the life tide ebbed away, 
And the dim eyes closed to open no more 

Till the resurrection-day. 

* Copied, with permission, from the complete edition of "The 
Outcast and Othek Poems," twenty-three in all, written by 
J. W. Watson, and published in one large volume by T. B. Peter- 
Bon & Brothers, Philadelphia. 



224 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

He is deaf to the sound of his comrade's voice 
When he shouts his name in his ear, 

And a soul drifts out on the stormy tide, 
While the clay -cold corse lies here. 

We wrapped his gaunt and rigid limbs 

In the blanket's scanty fold, 
And we bore our strange, mysterious load 

Away from the noisesome hold. 
The midnight stars look down on the form 

That lies on the gangway plank. 
And rolls to the rolling of the ship 

And the engine's heavy clank. 

And there we gathered, a silent group, 

To wait for the last sad rite, 
And thought, as we looked on the lifeless mass, 

Of a saddening second sight — 
Of his far New England, yearning home; 

Of the love that waits in vain, 
And never shall clasp that soldier form 

To its beating breast again. 

Waiting — the waves are waiting still 

To seize their promised prey; 
But the good ship madly flings them back 

As she cleaves her onward way; 
And the words of hope rise clearly up 

Over the din without, 
Stilling the storm in our aching hearts, 

And stilling our every doubt. 

A pause — we wait in silent awe — 

Then lifting the shrouded clay, 
With a sullen plunge and a heavy splash, 

We cast the load away. 
The ship goes staggering on her route, 

The winds scream wild and free, 
But the corse of a soldier brave and true 

Lies down in the depths of the sea — 

Lies down in the depths of the troubled sea, 
With the dwellers of the deep, 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 225 

To rise when the last great trump shall sound 

To waken him from his sleep. 
No stone to mark where the lifeless clay 

Is clasped in the hissing foam, 
But his monument stands in the loving hearts 

Of his far New England home. 



THE VIOLETS' QUEEN. 

Oh saw you the maid with the soul beaming eye, 
Whose face is as bright as the clear summer sky? 
On her cheek the red rose and white lily have met, 
And her breath is as sweet as the blue Violet. 

Her soft waving ringlets hang down in rich curls, 
On a bosom whose treasure is dearer than worlds, 
On her brow the pure halo of meekness is seen, 
There's no pride in the heart of the Violets' Queen. 

Ah what can I proffer a maiden so fair? 
In brightness no gems with her eyes can compare, 
Fair pearls on her neck would be useless I ween, 
The}' are not half so fair as the Violets' Queen. 

I adore thee sweet maid with the soul beaming eye, 
For thy face and thy mind in loveliness vie, 
Supreme in my breast reigns thy image serene, 
And my heart throbs with love for the Violets' Queen. 

One touch of thy hand, and one glance from thine eyo 
Would thrill me with rapture, and hush every sigh ; 
And this earth with the brightness of Eden would gleams, 
If I had but one kiss from the lips of my Queen. 



God comfort and pity us all 

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : " It might have been ! H 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 

Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And in the hereafter, angels may 

Roll the stone from its grave away. 
15 



226 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



THE TIGER AND SERPENT. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

In that far distant land whose rivers flow 

Over bright cataracts and sands of gold, 

Whose verdant plains are robed with brilliant flowers,. 

Or sandy deserts vast and trackless lie, 

Where grand majestic mountains pierce the cloudy 

One day a tired wanderer I strayed. 

Faint, weary, hungry, and no refuge nigh 

Where I could rest my weary limbs, or quench 

The thirst which parched my dry and burning lips 

I thought a peasant's life more blest than mine. 

In the dread silence of the forest vast, 

Whose leafy covering hid the sun's bright face, 

I heard a horrid sound, which seemed to be 

A roar of rage, and cry of agony. 

Amazed and startled. I looked all around, 

And, under a tall tamarind tree, I saw 

A royal ti<ier, held and fast entwined 

In a huge serpent's strong encircling folds, 

Whose dreadful pressure slowly crushed the life 

Out of the body of the fated beast. 

Soon the loud roaring of the tiger ceased, 

And nought was heard but moans of agony. 

The monstrous serpent slowly drew its prey 

Close to the trunk of the adjacent tree, 

And twining its bright body round the brute, 

It broke the strong limbs of the animal. 

I heard the snapping of the breaking bones, 

And my blood seemed to chill within my veins. 

Its moans proclaimed the creature's agony. 

I was so wrought upon by the brute's woe, 

That with my sword in my right hand, I crept 

Near to the destroyed and destroyer, 

Then, while the fierce serpent was so intent 

On the destruction of its hapless prey, 

'Jli at it perceived me not, with one swift blow 

I from its body struck its fearful head. 

With hideous contortions it unwound 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 227 

Its dreadful folds from its expiring prey, 

And both lay, side by side, dead on the ground, 



LOVE WAITING AT THE DOOR, 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

Oh dearest of all to me, 
As 1 tell my fond tale to thee, 
Let thy pure heart listen to me, 
While 1 whisper of love. 

There is none upon earth like thee, 
In the spirit land we may see, 
Fair forms which resemble thee, 
They dwell in the realms above. 

More fragrant than roses in bloom, 
And blue violets' sweet perfume, 
Is the maiden whose eyes illume 
Like the stars from above. 

Then come to the window my sweet, 
And me with love's glances greet, 
Let me hear the sound of thy feet, 
Which is music to me. 

Fair Queen of the birds and flowers, 
Come with me to pure Hymen's bowers, 
For a union of hearts is ours, 
And Love's home is with thee. 

Then come my sweet, my darling, 
I am waiting alone for thee, 
My love, my life, my soul, my wife, 
My angel come down to me. 



As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its br ast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 



228 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



COLUMBIA'S IRON HEARTS. 

(PHILIP LAWKEXCE.) 

Over the sparkling waves we gayly ulide, 
While the stars glitter on the moon-lit sea, 
Upon the billows' crests we proudly ride, 
And listen to the south winds piping free; 
No cares disturb our minds, no fears annoy, 
Our cheerful songs are full of mirth and glee, 
Our happy hearts are filled with love and joy, 
Because we breathe the air of liberty. 
Yo ho, yo ho, we fearless go, 

And claim the ocean as our right; 
Yo ho, yo ho, what kingly foe, 

Will dare oppose Columbia's might? 

Over the waters of the mighty deep. 
While the winds whistle past the swelling sail, 
Up in the shrouds the watch their vigils keep, 
Rocked by the billows of the rising gale. 
The thunder clouds have hid the misty moon, 
Over the waves is heard the tempest's moan, 
Pale quivering gleams of light the heavens illume, 
And o'er the deck is hurled the ocean foam 
Yo ho, yo ho, we fearless go. 

And claim the ocean as our right; 
Yo ho, yo ho, what kingly foe, 

Will dare oppose Columbia's might? 

No raging tempest can our hearts appal, 
Our stout built vessel every storm defies, 
Her ribs of oak are like an iron wall. 
And o'er the deep her conquering banner flies. 
In storm or calm we'll rule the subject main, 
Our glorious Eagle its fierce glances darts, 
In every contest we the light must gain, 
Because our ships are manned by " Iron Hearts." 
Yo ho, yo ho. we fearless go, 

And claim the ocean as our right, 
Yo ho, yo ho, what kingly foe, 

Will dare oppose Columbia's might? 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 229 
LOVE IS HAPPINESS. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

One lovely morn in Spring I went a Maying, 

And saw fond lovers in the meadows straying, 

" Ah ! " said I to my heart, u which will happiest prove 

Ambition's fame and glory, or True Love ? " 

Then from the grass I saw a sky-lark rise, 
With fluttering wings he sought to reach the skies, 
With rapturous notes his little throat was swelling, 
And to his mate his happiness was telling. 

Higher and higher rose the soaring bird, 
And seemed to reach the sky, while still was heard 
His notes melodious, 'till beyond my sight- 
He seemed to slowly rise, then vanish quite. 

Then my heart, whispered " He has risen high, 
And his ambition he doth gratify ; 
Wilt thou like him care not for earthly love? 
But like a daring spirit mount above? " 

While soft clourls hid the singer, still T heard 
The rapturous notes of the melodious bird; 
And then a tiny speck upon the skies, 
Again appeared unto my upturned eyes. 

And the sweet notes came down so soft and clear, 
No earthly melody so charmed mine ear, 
It seemed as if an angel from above, 
Was bringing down a message full of love. 

And the fond bird from out his loving heart, 
Still tenderer notes of passion did impart, 
To tell his mate that in the skies above, 
There was no happiness compared to love. 

Ah ! thought I, gentle bird I've learned from thee, 
A lesson full of wisdom, it shall be 
Engraven on my heart, for now I know 
Tis love alone brings happiness below. 



230 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 
SOFTLY MURMUR. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

Softly murmur, gentle breezes, 
Waft my thoughts to her I love, 
Lightly lift her flowing ringlets, 
O'er her tender bosom rove ; 
Tell her that her image ever 
In my breast has made its home, 
That my heart will never waver, 
But will beat for her alone. 

Softly murmur, gentle waters, 
Flowing down the mossy glade; 
Bringing perfume to the flowers; 
Giving lightness to the shade; 
Bringing fragrance to the forest, 
In the pleasant hours of e'en ; 
To the fields a robe of beauty, 
To the leaves a brighter green. 

Softlv murmur, gentle voices, 
Soothing care and healing woe, 
Bringing to the chastened spirit 
Hopes forgotten long ago. 
Bringing comfort to the dying; 
To the weary, giving rest; 
Like the whispering of angels 
In the mansions of the blest. 



Women have been called angels in love-tales and son- 
nets, till we have almost learned to think of angels an 
little fetter than women. Yet a man who knows a woman 
thoroughly, and loves her truly, — and there are women 
who may be so known and loved. — will find, after a few 
years, that his relish for the grosser pleasures is lessened, 
and that he has grown into a fondness for the intellectual 
and refined, without an effort, and almost unawares. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 231 
TOMMY AND HIS FOUR PUPPIES. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

Our old dog Chloe has puppies four, 

Juno, Venus and two puppies more, 

Sister Jane named two, and Sister Fan 

Said, " Name the others Tommy, if you can !* w 

First comes Juno, she's a lady fair, 
With large shining eyes and curly hair; 
She seems very proud of her handsome face, 
And walks about with a stately grace. 

The coat of Venus is soft as silk, 
As bright as satin and white as milk, 
She looks so nice that brother Peter, 
Declares that he could almost eat her I 

I think it would be a burning shame, 
If girls beat us at giving a name, 
So come, my boys ! and agree with me, 
What shall the names of the others be ? 

One of them is a gentleman pup, 
His ears hang down and his tail curls up, 
He barks very loud and shows his teeth, 
But I don't believe he'd bite a thief. 

For one day a donkey came our way, 
He stopt at our door and began to bray, 
Which so frightened puppy number three, 
That like a coward away ran he. 

Now I don't care for a cowardly cur, 
So if you like you can have him Sir ! 
If he don't change for the better soon, 
He'll richly deserve the name of " Spoon." 

The other pup is a gentleman too, 

His coat is brown and his eyes are blue, 

His hair is soft, and long, and curly, 

To find his match you must get up early ! 



232 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

He chases the pigs from out the lot, 
He drives the geese from their favorite spot, 
The kitten she scampers, and oh ! My! 
Don't he make the old mother cat fly ! 

I went one day to see my boat swim, 
And as I leaned over I tumbled in, 
Down to the river my brave dog tore, 
Plunged into the water and dragged me ashore. 

Where will you find such a dog as that? 
To guard your life or to chase a cat ? 
As he is faithful and does his duty 
Suppose we give him the name of " Beauty!" 



A DAUGHTER'S SONG TO HER FATHER. 

(PHILIP LA WREN C E.) 

Listen dear Father ! the sweet bells are ringing, 
In grassy meadows the milkm lid is singing, 
Over the clover the swallow is skimming, 
And the mocking-bird calls to its mate in the wood. 

Sweet are the fields as they ripple with breezes, 
Sweet are the flowers whose rich fragrance so pleases, 
Sweet the gay song for all labor it eases, 
But sweetest of all is thy dear voice to me. 

Come to the grove where tired nature reposes, 
I'll weave for thee garlands of beautiful posies, 
White lilies and jessamine mingled with roses, 
Round thy loved forehead I'll softly entwine. 

There we can rest in a green shady bower, 
See butterflies gather the sweets from each flower, 
Hear the thrush sing from the old ivy rower, 
And join the gay birds in their anthems of joy. 



If there's a Power above us — and that there is, all 
Nature cries aloud through all her works — He must delight 
in virtue j and that whxh He delights in must be happy. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 233 
PAINTING A PICTURE. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

Come let me paint a picture unto thee : 
Down yonder vale my cottage you may see, 
Where a fair bride is smiling upon me, 
And orange blossoms round her brow entwine. 

Around my cot the apple trees are blooming, 
That is the spot your lovely eyes illumine, 
The mocking bird its gladsome note is tuning, 
And with sweet music serenades its mate. 

Hark, to the sound of the joyous wedding bells ! 
What a tale of joy their merry music tells ! 
Now thou art my bride, my happy bosom swells 
With rapture, I am happ er than a king! 

Another picture let me paint to thee: 
One blissful year has passed since we were wed, 
My crops all fail, and 1 must go to sea, 
Because my cattle all are sick or dead. 

One night the Storm King on his thunders came, 
With his fierce lightnings struck our trembling cr 
The angry billows whelmed us in the main, 
But one survives upon a feeble raft. 

Hark ! how the foaming billows round him roar! 
The raft is shattered in the breakers' foam ; 
Senseless he's dashed upon the rocky shore, 
Where sea birds cry, aud dismal surges moan. 

Is that an angel kneeling on the shore ? 
Who rests his head upon her tender breast? 
See ! his eyes open to the light once more, 
He lives again, and faithful love is blessed ! 



Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 
"This is my own — my native land !" 



234 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 
ADVENTURE WITH A LION. 

(pmLIP LAWRENCE.) 

A year ago, on board a merchant ship, 

I sailed to the far land of Africa. 

One lovely morn I landed on the shore, 

To gather fruit from off the laden boughs. 

Refreshed by luscious grapes I wandered on, 

And soon approached a venerable wood, 

Whose tall majestic trees in their deep shade, 

Would shield me from the fierce rays of the sun. 

As I walked sheltered by a leafy roof, 

Which the overhanging boughs spread over me, 

I heard the stag call loudly to its mate, 

And heard the doe in gentle tones reply. 

Sometimes a serpent hissed within the shade, 

And warned me to beware of poisoned fangs ; 

Still I pressed onward with a lightsome heart, 

Till, as I turned a corner of the wood, 

Right in my path a lordly lion stood. 

Each stood amazed and gazed upon the other. 

Then the majestic brute slowly advanced 

Until not more than thirty feet away. 

With a low growl resembling muffled thunder 

He fixed his glaring eyes full upon mine, 

As if to fright all courage from my heart. 

I stood transfixed and hardly dared to breathe. 

What visions passed before my mental eyes! 

I seemed to see my native home once more, 

I seemed to hear my mother's voice again. 

As in a dream the past deeds of my life 

Began to pass before my mental sight. 

Then the trees glided on in mystic dance, 

And beauteous colors floated in the air; 

A lovely rainbow spanned the azure sky, 

And angel'fl songs were ringing, in mine ears 

Sudden the vision vanished, and I knew 

That 1 was standing, face to face, with Death. 

All this time, mine ejrea had never wavered, 

Bat had returned the lion's piercing gaze, 

Who seemed irresolute and did not spring. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 235 

It thus appears to me that the wild beast 

Will not attack the daring man, unless 

Some sign of fear should in his face be seen. 

There is a majesty which God hath given 

Unto the face of man, that, until he 

Degrades his noble nature by base fear, 

Or shameful" vice, not even the fiercest beast 

Will dare attack him, standing face to face, 

But springs upon him when he's unaware. 

How long we stood in mutual amaze 

I cannot say, it seemed to me an age. 

Suddenly the lion lifted up his voice, 

And the vast forest echoed with his roar; 

As if the awful " Trump of Doom " had blown, 

All did awake as from the sleep of Death ; 

The jackalls howled, the frightened eagle screamed, 

The monkeys chattered, and the herds of deer 

Fled swiftly far away in wild affright. 

I did not move although my heart beat fast. 

At length the royal beast, with stately tread, 

Turned slowly round, and went upon its way. 

1 feel I am no hypocrite, but yet 

I do not shame to say, that I sank down 

Upon my knees, in grateful thanks to God! 

Who had preserved me in dark peril's hour. 



HUKRAH FOR THE GLOEIOUS SEA 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

What care I for halls, or gardens 

Where birds sing on bush and tree, 
What are vales and hills and rivers, 

Compared to the bright blue sea! 
How I love the old ocean's roar, 

Majestic, sublime and free, 
What music is >o grand, so noble ? 

The Ocean's the home for me ! 

While over the waves we're roaming, 
Hurruh for the glorious Sea ! 



236 THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 



With its rolling billows foaming, 
A Sailor's life for me. 

Chorus. — While over the waves we're roaming, 
Hurrah, etc. 

When the Sea is wildly raging, 

And fierce waves o'erwhelm the deck, 
Angels bright spread their wings of light, 

And guard us from storm and wreck. 
Winds may blow yet fearless we go, 

From our hearts all cares we fling, 
Spread our sail, we will face the gale, 

And merrily, merrily sing. 

While over the waves we're roaming, 
Hurrah for the glorious Sea ! 

With its rolling billows foaming, 
A Sailor's life for me. 

Chorus. — While over the waves we're roaming, 
Hu-rah, etc. 



THE SWEETEST OF SMILES. 

(philip lawrence.) 

Father. 
The sweetest of smiles and the smile I most prize, 

My wife gave to me on the morn we were wed, 
It played round her lips and it beamed from her eyes, 

As M I love you my husband," it tenderly said. 

Mother. 
The sweetest of smiles is the first smile which meets, 

The glad mother's eyes from the babe at her breast; 
Hew swel s her fond heart, with what rapture it beats, 

While she looks on her dove as she lulls it to rest. 

Son. 
The sweetest of smiles is the fond smile which dwells, 

In tin 1 eyes, on the lips, of the maiden you love: 
Tho' silent, the heart's treasured secret it tells, 

'Tis a sunbeam sunt down from the bright orb above. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 237 

Daughter. 
The sweetest of smiles is when true lovers meet, 

It is pure as the smile of the spirits above; 
No language so eloquent, music so sweet, 

As the glance and the voice, of the being you love. 



THE LADIES. 

(PHI LIP LAWRENCE.) 

The smiles of the ladies our homes grace and bless; 

England's fair ladies are famed for their duty, 
The ladies of France are famed for their dress, 

American ladies are famed for their beauty. 

The praise of the ladies 'tis pleasing to sing. 

Who bless all our lives and each care can dispel, 
If you gain one fond heart quickly offer a ring, 

And bind in love's chains an American Belle. 

No riches can purchase the bliss of her love, 
But the truejnoble man may aspire to the prize, 

For her heart is as pure and as fond as the dove, 
And the brightness of Eden is seen in her eyes. 

I have heard of Angels, can such things be? 

Look on her you love, an Angel yon will see! 
She will make your life like the spirit life above, 

And your home a palace full of light and love. 



LITTLE ANNIE'S PRAYER AND DREAM. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE. 

Little Annie knelt by the side of her bed, 
And folding her pretty white hands, she said, 
"Dear Father in Heaven ! oh listen, I pray 
To all that thy own little child will say, 
Bless Papa and Mamma, and Grandma so mild, 
And sweet little Kitty, the old Pussy's child, 



238 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Kind Grandpa, who draws me about so nice, 
And Pearl and Snowdrop, my pretty white mice." 

When I'm put in my bed and go to sleep, 
I think angels their watch around me keep, 
For when I lie down I have pleasant dreams. 
I seem to be walking by beautiful streams, 
Where the bright silver fishes swim and glide, 
And in the white lilies the fire-flies hide, 
On the river's bank the red roses bloom, 
And fill all the air with their sweet perfume. 

There beautiful angels in robes of white, 
Played on golden harps and sung all the night, 
And the loveliest form in that lovely band, 
My angel aunt Annie took me by the hand; 
When I looked in her face she sweetly smiled, 
And kissed me and called me her darling child, 
Then showed me a palace of purest white, 
Encircled by rainbows of radiant light. 

Then she told me, within that blest home above 
Dwelt creation's God, and his name was " Love," 
Who bestowed his blessings on great and small, 
Who returned good for evil to one and all. 
While I joyfully listened I heard the sweet hymn, 
That was sung by Archangel and Seraphim." 
If that is God's heaven where he doth reign, 
I want to return to heaven again. 



THE QUEEN OF LOVE. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

Fair as the blush which summer morn 

Imprints upon the rose, 
With smiles as bright as early dawn, 

When flowers their buds unclose, 
A lovely spirit of the skies 

Has come from realms above, 
The light of heaven is in thine eyes 

My charming u Queen of Love!" 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 239 

Young Cupid dwells in every curl 

That doth thy head adorn ; 
Venus her girdle doth unfurl 

To bind thy matchless form ; 
The Graces come with loving arms, 

A sister Grace to greet, 
My heart a captive to thy charms 

Lies panting at thy feet. 

Oh lovely one ! if yet ungiven, 

A gift to me impart, 
A gift I'll value next to heaven, 

The tribute of thy heart. 
Thy gentle voice so sweet and clear, 

An echo from above, 
With melody enchants mine ear 

My peerless " Queen of Love ! " 



A FATHER'S POETRAIT OF A DAUGHTER, 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

To Annie.* 

In fondest words of tenderness, 
My heart doth speak of thee, 
Altho 5 no words of mine can tell, 
How dear thou wert to me. 
Thy lovely form I still can see 
Clear imaged on my brain, 
Where, 'till I breathe my latest sigh, 
It ever will remain. 

By day and night all other tkoughts 
Are banished from my mind ; 
Within the church, or at the play, 
No pleasure can I find j 

* Annie Lawrence, daughter of Prof. Philip Lawrence, born 
Nov. 6th, 1857, died March 24th, 1877, in the 20th year of her age* 
This loving child, by her conduct, never gave her father's heart 
one pang. 



240 THE LAWRENCE KECITER, 

No sweet harmonious music 
Can now delight mine ear, 
Because I cannot hear the voice 
Of her I love so dear. 

Let me try to paint the picture 
Of one who was so fair: 
Her brow was as the lily white, 
And dark brown was her hair; 
Soft hazel eyes so full of truth, 
Yet radiantly did shine, 
The graces and the virtues met 
Within that form divine. 



The color of the soft moss-rose, 
Was on that damask cheek, 
Her lips were like twin cherries, 
And almost seemed to speak ; 
Within those slightly parted lips 
Were seen two rows of pearls, 
And Love had touched the dimpled chin 
Of this paragon of girls. 

My Annie's form was beautiful, 

Above all woman kind, 

Yet that fair form was far surpassed 

By the beauty of her mind. 

Thy thoughts were chaste, thy voice was sweet, 

My gentle, tender dove! 

Thy soul, too pure to tarry here, 

Returned to realms above. 



Her love for me was wonderful, 

It came direct from God! 

But now. alas! that loving heart 

Lies underneath the sod. 

Yet one sweet thought doth comfort give 

To this poor aching heart, 

"Our Father' 1 will unite our souls, 

Never again to part. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 241 



THE KAVEN. 

(edgar a. poe.) 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 
weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — 

"While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a 
tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber- 
door. 

" J Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber- 
door — 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon 

the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to 

borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 

L en ore, — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore, — 

Nameless here forevermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 
curtain, 

Thrilled me, — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt 
before ; 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 
repeating, 

" ? Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber- 
door, — 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door; 
That it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no 

longer, 
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 

implore ; 
16 



242 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came 
rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber- 
door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide 
the door : 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, won- 
dering, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 
dream before ; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no 
token, 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 
" Lenore ! " 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 
" Lexore ! " 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
burning, 

Soon again 1 heard a tapping, something louder than 
before. 

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my win- 
dow-lattice ; 

Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery 
explore, — 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery 
explore ; — 

'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and 
flutter, 

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of 
yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or 
stayed lie ; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my cham- 
ber-door, — 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber- 
door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 243 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 

wore, 
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 

"art sure no craven; 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the 

nightly shore, 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian 

shore ? " 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore ! " 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 
plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore ; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber- 
door, 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber- 
door 

With such name as " Nevermore ! " 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 

outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he 

fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have 

flown before, 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown 

before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore ! " 

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and 

store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful 

disaster 
Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden 

bore, 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, 
Of — ' Never — nevermore ! ? " 



244 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and 

bust and door, 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 

yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous 

bird of yore 

Meant in croaking "Nevermore ! " 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's 

core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 

reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light 

gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light 

gloating o'er 

She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an 

unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted 

floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these 

angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 

Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 

Lenore ! " 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore ! " 

"Prophet ! " said I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird 

or devil ! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 

here ashore, 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore, — 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I 

implore ! " 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!" 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 245 

" Prophet !" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird 

or devil ! 
By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both 

adore, 
Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant 

Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name 

Lenore ; 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 

Lenore ! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I 

shrieked, upstarting, — 
"Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian 

shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath 

spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my 

door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 

off my door ! w 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore ! " 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door j 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 

dreaming, 
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow 

on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on 

the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 



Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounce it to you: 
trippingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many 
of our pla}^ers do, I had as lief the town-crier spake my 
lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand 
thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, 
and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must 
acquire and beget a temperance that will give it smooth- 
ness. 



246 THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 
THE FAMINE. 

(H. W. LONGFELLOW.) 

Oh the long and dreary winter I 
Oh the cold and cruel winter ! 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 
Froze the ice on lake and river £ 
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape, 
Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
Through the forest, round the village. 
Hardly from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
Vainly walked he through the forest, 
Sought for bird or beast and found none, 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 
In the snow beheld no footprints, 
In the ghastly, gleaming forest 
Fell, and could not rise from weakness. 
Perished there from cold and hunger. 

Oh the famine and the fever! 
Oh the wasting of the famine! 
Oh the blasting of the fever ! 
Oh the wailing of the children I 
Oh the anguish of the women ! 
All the earth was sick and famished; 
Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 
Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy; 
Waited not to be invited, 
Did not parley at the doorway, 
Sat there without word of welcome 
In the seat of Laughing Water; 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 217 

Looted with haggard eyes and hollow 
At the face of Laughing Water. 
And the foremost said : " Behold me 
I am Famine, Bukadawin ! " 
And the other said : " Behold me ! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin!" 
And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her, 
Shuddered at the words they uttered, 
Lay down on her bed in silence, 
Hid her face, but made no answer ; 
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 
At the looks they cast upon her, 
At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow, 
In his face a stony firmness, 
On his brow the sweat of anguish 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 
Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting 
With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
With his quiver full of arrows, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Into the vast and vacant forest 
On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 

u Gitche Manito, the mighty ! n 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 
"Give your children food, Father! 
Give us food, or we must perish ! 
Give me food for Minnehaha, 
For my dying Minnehaha!" 
Through the far-resounding forest, 
Through the forest vast and vacant 
Rang that cry of desolation, 
But there came no other answer 
Than the echo of his crying, 
Than the echo of the woodlands, 
" Minnehaha ! Minnehaha ! w 



248 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

All day long roved Hiawatha 
In that melancholy forest, 
Through the shadow of whose thickets, 
In the pleasant days of summer, 
Of that ne'er forgotten summer, 
He had brought his young wife homeward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
When the birds sang in the thickets, 
And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 
And the air was full of fragrance, 
And the loving Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
"I will follow you, my husband! 77 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests that watched her, 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the beloved, 
She the dying Minnehaha. 
"Hark! 77 she said, "I hear a rushing, 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance l" 
"No, my child! 77 said old Nokomis, 
" 7 Tis the night- wind in the pine-trees \" 
"Look! 77 she said, "I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! 77 
"No, my child! 77 said old Nokomis, 
" 7 Tis the smoke that waves and beckons! 7 ' 
"Ah! 77 she said, "the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers, 
Clasping mine amid the darkness! 
Hiawatha! Hiawatha! 77 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest, 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 



THE LAWREKCE RECITER 249 

Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-enciimbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing; 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you, 
Would that I were dead as you are! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 
And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before hii 
And his bursting heart within hii£ 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moaned and shuddered, 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down still and speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 
With both hands his face he covered, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
As if in a swoon he sat there, 
Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 

Then they buried Minnehaha; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks; 
Clothed her in her richest garments, 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, 
Covered her with snow, like ermine: 



250 THE LAWRENCE RECITER- 

Thus they buried Minnehaha. 
And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorw r ay Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorway, 
That it might not be extinguished, 
Might not leave- her in the darkness* 

"Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha; 
Farewell, my Laughing Water! 
All my heart is buried with you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you! 
Come not back again to labor, 
Come not back again to suffer, 
Where the Famine and the Fever 
Wear the heart and waste the body. 
Soon my task will be completed, 
Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
To the Islands of the Blessed', 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter V 7 



THE SNOW-STORM. 

(C. G. EASTMAN.) 

'Tis a fearful night in the winter time, 

As cold as it ever can be ; 
The roar of the blast is heard like the chime 

Of the waves on an angry sea ; 
The moon is full, but her silver light 
The storm dashes out with its wings to-night; 
And over the sky, from south to north, 
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 

In the strength of a mighty glee. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 251 

All day had the snow come down — all day, 

As it never came down before, 
And over the hills at sunset lay 

Some two or three feet or more 
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; 
The windows blocked, and the well-curbs gone 5 
The hay-stack had grown to a mountain-lift ; 
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, 

As it lay by the farmer's door. 

The night sets in on a world of snow, 

While the air grows sharp and chill, 
And the warning roar of a fearful blow 

Is heard on the distant hill : 
And the Norther! See^ on the mountain-peak, 
In his breath haw the old trees writhe and shriek ! 
He shouts on the plain, Ho-ho! ho-hot 
He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 

And growls with a savage will. 

Such a night as this to be found abroad 

In the drifts and the freezing air! 
Sits a shivering dog in a field by the road, 

With the snow in his shaggy hair; 
He shuts his eyes to the wind, and growls ^ 
He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; 
Then, crouching low from the cutting sleet, 
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet % r 

Pray, what does the dog do there ?: 

A farmer came from the village plain, 

But he lost the traveled way; 
And for hours he trod with might and main 

A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
But colder still the cold winds blew, 
And deeper still the deep drifts grew; 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
At last in her struggles floundered down, 

Where a log in a hollow lay. 

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, 

She plunged in the drifting snow, 
While her master urged, till his breath grew short, 

With a word and a gentle blow : 



252 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; 
His hands were numb, and had lost their might; 
So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, 
And strove to shelter himself till day, 
With his coat and the buffalo. 

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, 

To rouse up his dying steed ; 
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain 

For help in his master's need ; 
For awhile he strives with a wistful cry, 
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, 

And whines when he takes no heed. 

The wind goes down and the storm is o'er,— 

; Tis the hour of midnight, past; 
The old trees writhe and bend no more 

In the whirl of the rushing blast ; 
The silent^moon, with her peaceful light, 
Looks down on the hills with snow all white; 
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
Of the blasted pine and the ghostly stump, 

Afar on the plain are cast. 

But, cold and dead, by the hidden log 

Are they who came from the town, — 
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 

And his beautiful Morgan brown, — 
In the wide snow desert, far and grand, 
With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand; 
The dog with his nose on his master's feet, 
And the mare half soon through the crusted sleet, 

Where she lay when she floundered down. 



la this a time to be gloomy and sad 

When our mother Nature laughs around; 

When even the doe]) blue heavens look glad, 

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 253 

KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 

(h. w. longellow.) 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Appareled in magnificent attire 

With retinue of many a knight and squire, 

On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudty sat 

And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. 

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 

Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 

He caught the words, " Deposuit jpotentes 

De sede, et exaltavit humiles /" 

And slowly lifting up his kingly head, 

He to a learned clerk beside him said, 

" What mean those words ? " The clerk made answer meet, 

" He has put down the mighty from their seat, 

And has exalted them of low degree." 

Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 

" 'Tis well thatsuch seditious words are sung 

Only by priests, and in the LaHn tongue ; 

For unto priests and people be it known, 

There is no power can push me from my throne !" 

And leaning back he yawned and fell asleep, 

Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 

When he awoke, it was already night ; 

The church was empty, and there was no light, 

Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, 

Lighted a little space before some saint. 

He started from his seat and gazed around, 

But saw no living thing and heard no sound. 

He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; 

He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, 

And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, 

And imprecations upon men and saints. 

The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls 

As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. 

At length the &exton, hearing from without 

The tumult of the knocking and the shout, 



254 THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 

And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, 
Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there ? " 
Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, 
" Open ; 'tis I, the king ! Art thou afraid ? " 
The frightened sexton, muttering with a curse, 
u This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! " 
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; 
A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
Haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak, 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spok«, 
But leaped into the blackness of the night, 
And vanished like a spectre from his sight. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 

Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire, 

With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, 

Strode on and thundered at the palace gate ; 

Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage 

To right and left each seneschal and page, 

And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, 

His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. 

From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed; 

Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, 

Until at last he reached the banquet-room, 

Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. 

There on the dais sat another king, 

Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring — 

King Robert's self in features, form, and height, 

But all transfigured with angelic light ! 

It was an angel ; and his presence there 

With a divine effulgence filled the air, 

An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 

Though none the hidden angel recognize. 

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, 

The throneless monarch on the angel gazed, 

Who met his look of anger and surprise 

With the divine compassion of his eyes! 

Then said, "Who art thou, and why com'st thou here?" 

To which King Robert answered with a sneer, 



THE LAWRENCE KE€ITER. 255 

H I am the ting, and come to claim my own 

From an impostor, who usurps my throne !' ? 

And suddenly, at these audacious words, 

Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords ; 

The angel answered with unruffled brow, 

"Nay^ not the king, but the king's jester; thou 

Henceforth shall wear the bells and scalloped cape 

And for thy counselor shalt lead an ape ; 

Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, 

And wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! " 

Deaf to King Hobert's threats and cries and prayers, 

They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; 

A group of tittering pages ran before, 

And as they opened wide the folding door, 

His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, 

The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, 

And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 

With the mock plaudits of " Long live the king ! " 

Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, 
He said within himself, "It was a dream !" 
But the straw rustled as he turned his head, 
There were the cap and bells beside his bed; 
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, 
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, 
And in the corner, a revolting shape, 
Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape. 
It was no dream ; the world he loved so much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! 

Days came and went ; and now returned again 

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 

Under the angel's governance benign 

The happy island danced with corn and wine, 

And deep within the mountain's burning breast 

Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 

Meanwhile King Eobert yielded to his fate, 

Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 

Dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear, 

With look bewildered, and a vacant stare, 

Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn, 

By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, 



256 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

His only friend the ape, his only food 

What others left — he still was unsubdued. 

And when the angel met him on his way, 

And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, 

Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel 

The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 

" Art thou the king ? " the passion of his woe 

Burst from him in resistless overflow, 

And lifting high his forehead, he would fling 

The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the king ! " 

Almost three years were ended, when there came 

Ambassadors of great repute and name 

From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane 

By letter summoned them forthwith to come 

On Holy Thursday to his City of Rome. 

The angel with great joy received his guests, 

And gave them presents of embroidered vests, 

And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, 

And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 

Then he departed with them o'er the sea 

Into the lovely land of Italy, 

Whose loveliness was more resplendent made 

By the mere passing of that cavalcade, 

With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir 

Of jeweled bridle and of golden spur. 

And lo ! among the menials, in mock state, 

Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait, 

His cloak of foxtails flapping in the wind, 

The solemn ape demurely perched behind, 

King Robert rode, making huge merriment 

In all the country towns through which they went. 

The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare 

Of bannered trumpets, on St. Peter's Square, 

Giving his benediction and embrace, 

Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 

W hile with congratulations and with prayers 

He entertained the angel unawares, 

Robert, the jester, bursting through the crowd, 

Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud: 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 257 

"I am the king ! Look and behold in me 

Robert, your brother, King of Sicily ! 

This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes, 

Is an impostor in a king's disguise. 

Do you not know me ? Does no voice within 

A nswer my cry, and say we are akin ? " 

The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, 

Gazed at the angel's countenance serene; 

The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport 

To keep a madman for thy fool at court ! " 

And the poor, baffled jester, in disgrace 

Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the holy week went by, 

And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ; 

The presence of the* angel, with its light, 

Before the sun rose, made the city bright, 

And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, 

Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 

Even the jester, on his bed of straw, 

With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw; 

He felt within a power unfelt before, 

And kneeling humbly on his chamber floor, 

He heard the rustling garments of the Lord 

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. 

And now the visit ending, and once more 
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, 
Homeward the angel journeyed, and again 
The land was made resplendent with his train, 
Flashing along the towns of Italy 
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. 
And when once more within Palermo's wall, 
And, seated on the throne in his great hall, 
He heard the Angelus from convent towers, 
As if the better world conversed with ours, 
He beckoned to King Bobert to draw nigher, 
And with a gesture bade the rest retire. 
And when they were alone, the angel said, 
" Art thou the king ? " Then, bowing down his head, 
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, 
And meekly answered him, "Thou knowest best! 
17 



258 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, 
And in some cloister's school of penitence, 
Across those stones that pave the way to heaven 
Walk barefoot till my guilty soul be shriven ! " 

The angel smiled, and from his radiant face 

A holy light illumined all the place, 

And through the open window, loud and clear, 

The} 7 heard the monks chant in the chapel near. 

Above the stir and tumult of the street, 

H He has put down the mighty from their seat, 

And has exalted them of low degree I" 

And through the chant a second melody 

Hose like the throbbing of a single string: 

"I am an angel, and thou art the king !" 

King Robert, who was standing near the throne, 

Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 

Kut all appareled as in days of oid, 

With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ; 

And when his courtiers came, they found him there, 

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. 



THE KIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. 

(JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.) 

No SONG of a soldier riding down 

To the raging fight of Winchester town; 

No song of a time that shook the earth 

With the nation's throe at a nation's birth ; 

But the song of a brave man, free from fear 

As Sheridan's self, or Paul Revere ; 

Who risked what they risked, — free from strife 

And its promise of glorious pay, — his life. 

The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, 
And the answering echoes of life are heard; 
The dew still clings to the trees and grass, 
And the earlier toilers smiling pass, 
As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, 
Or up the valley where merrily (tomes 
The brook that sparkles in diamond rills 
As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 259 

What was it that passed like an ominous breath ? 
Like a shiver of fear or a touch of death ? 
What was it? The valley is peaceful still, 
And the leaves are afire on the top of the hill; 
It was not a sound, nor a thing of sense — 
But a pain, like a pang in the short suspense 
That wraps the being of those who see 
At their feet the gulf of eternity. 

The air of the valley has felt the chill; 
The workers pause at the door of the mill; 
The housewife, keen to the shivering air, 
Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, 
Instinctive taught by the mother-love, 
And thinks of the sleeping ones above. 

Why start the listeners ? Why does the course 
Of the mill-stream widen ? Is it a horse — 
"Hark to the sound of his hoofs," they say — 
That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way? 

God! What was that, like a human shriek, 
From the winding valley ? Will nobody speak ; 
Will nobody answer those women who cry 
As the awful warnings thunder by? 

Whence come they? Listen 1 And now they hear 

The sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near; 

They watch the trend of the vale, and see 

The rider, who thunders so menacingly, 

With waving arms and warning scream 

To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. 

He draws no rein, but he shakes the street 

With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet, 

And this the cry that he flings to the wind : 

" To the hills for your lives/ The flood is behind I " 

He cries and is gone ; but they know the worst — 
The treacherous Williamsburg dam 1ms burst! 
The basin that nourished their happy homes 
Is changed to a demon — It comes! it comes! 
A monster in aspect, with shaggy front 
Of shattered dwellings to take the brunt 



260 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Of the dwellings they shatter, — white-maned and hoarse, 

The merciless terror fills the course 

Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves, 

With death on the first of its hissing waves, 

Till cottage and street and crowded mill 

Are crumbled and crushed. But onward still, 

In front of the roaring flood is heard 

The galloping horse and the warning word. 

Thank God, that the brave man's life is spared ! 

From Williamsburg town he nobly dared 

To race with the flood and to take the road 

In front of the terrible swath it mowed. 

For miles it thundered and crashed behind, 

But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind : 

" They must be warned ! " was all he said, 

As away on his terrible ride he sped. 

When heroes are called for, bring the crown 
To this Yankee rider; send him down 
On the stream of time with the Curtius old : 
His deed, as the Roman's, was brave and bold. 
And the tale can as noble a thrill awake, 
For he offered his life for the people's sake. 

HOW PERSIMMONS TOOK CAH OB DEE BABY. 

Persimmons was a colored lad 

? Way down in Lou'sianny ; 
And all the teaching that he had 

Was given him by his granny. 
But he did his duty ever, 

As well as you, it may be : 
With faithfulness and pride always, 

He minded missus' baby. 
He loved the counsels of the saints, 

And, sometimes, those of sinners, — 
To run off 'possum-hunting, and 

Steal "water-million" dinners. 
And fervently at meetin', too, 

On every Sunday night, 
He'd with the elders shout and pray 

By the pine-knots' flaring light, 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 2G1 

And sing their rudest melodies, 

With voke so full and strong, 
You could almost think he learned them 

From the angels' triumph-song. 

SONG. 

" We be nearer to de Lord 

Dan de white folks — and dey knows it. 
See de glory-gate unbarred ! 
Walk in darkies, past de guard : 

Bet you dollar he won't close it ! 

" Walk in, darkies, troo de gate ; 

Hear de kullered angels holler! 
Go 'way, white folks : you're too late : 
We's de winnin' kuller. Wait 

Till de trumpet blow to foller." 

He would croon this over softly 

As he lay out in the sun ; 
But the song he heard most often, 

Was his granny's favorite one, 

" Jawge Washington, 

Thomas Jefferson, 

Persimmons Henry Clay, be 

Quick ! shut de do' ; 

Get up off dat flo'; 

Come heah and mind de baby." 

One night there came a fearful storm, 

Almost a second flood : 
The river rose, a torrent swollen 

Of beaten, yellow mud. 
It bit at its embankments, 

And lapped them down in foam, 
Till, surging through a wide crevasse, 

The waves seethed round their home. 
They scaled the high veranda; 

They filled the parlors clear, 
Till floating chairs and tables 

Clashed against the chandelier. 



262 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

•> 

'Twas then that Persimmons' granny, 

Stout of arm and terror-proof, 
By means of axe and lever, 

Pried up the veranda roof; 
Bound mattresses upon it 

With stoutest cord of rope ; 
Lifted out her fainting mistress, 

Saying, il Honey, dar is hope I 

" Jawge Washington, 
Thomas Jefferson, 
Persimmons Henry Clay, be 
Quick on dat raft ! 
Don't star' like a calf, 
But take good cah ob baby \ n 

The frothing river lifted them 

Out on its turbid tide ; 
And for awhile they floated an 

Together, side by side ; 
Till, broken by the current strong. 

The frail raft snapped in two, 
And Persimmons saw his granny 

Fast fading from his view. 

The deck-hands on a steamboat 

Heard, as they passed in haste, 
A child's voice singing in the dark, 

Upon the water's waste, — 
A song of faith and triumph, 

Of Moses and the Lard; 
And, throwing out a coil of rope, 

They drew him safe on board. 

Full many a stranger city 

Persimmons wandered through, 
" A-toting ob der baby," and 

Singing songs he knew. 
At length. some City Fathers 

Objected to bis plan, 
Arresting as a vagrant 

Our valiant little man. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 263 

They carried out their purposes: 

Persimmons " 'lowed he'd spile 'em ; " 

So, sloping from the station-house, 
He stole baby from the 'sylum. 

And on that very afternoon, 

As it was growing dark, 
He sang beside the fountain in 

The crowded city park, 
A rude camp-meeting anthem, 

Which he had sung before, 
While on his granny's fragile raft 

He drifted far from shore : — 

SONG. 

" Moses smote de water, and 
De sea gabe away: 
De chilleren dey passed ober, for 
De sea gabe way. 
O Lord ! / feel so glad ! 
It am always dark fo J day : 
So, honey, don't yer be sad: 



A lady dressed in mourning 

Turned with a sudden start, 
Gave one glance at the baby, 

Then caught it to Jier heart, 
W'hile a substantial shadow 

That was walking by her side 
Seized Persimmons by the shoulder, 

And. while she shook him, cried, — 

u You, Jawge Washington. 
Thomas Jefferson, 
Persimmons Henry Clay, 
Be quick, splain yourself, chile, 
Stop dat ar fool smile ! 
Whar you done been wid b<dy?" 

— S ribners Magazine. 



264 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



CASSIUS AGAINST CAESAR. 

(SHAKSPEARE.) 

Well, honor is the subject of my story. — 

I cannot tell what yon and other men 

Think of this life ; but, for my single self, 

I had as lief not be, as live to be 

In awe of such a thing as I myself. 

I was born free as Caesar ; so were you : 

We both have fed as well ; and we can both 

Endure the winter's cold as well as he : 

For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, 

Caesar said to'me, " Dar'st thou, Cassius, now 

Leap in with me into this angry flood, 

And swim to yonder point ? " Upon the word, 

Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 

And bade him follow : so, indeed, he did. 

The torrent roared ; and we did buffet it 

With lusty sinews, throwing it aside, 

And stemming it, with hearts of controversy: 

But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 

Caesar cried, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink ! " 

I, as iEneas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 

The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber 

Did I the tired Caesar, and this man 

Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 

A wretched creature, and must bend his body 

If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 

And, when the fit was on him, I did mark 

How he did shake : ? tis true, this god did shake : 

His coward lips did from their color fly; 

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 

Did lose his lustre : I did hear him groan : 

Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 

Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 

Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 265 

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 

A man of such a feeble temper should 

So get the start of the majestic world, 

And bear the palm alone. 

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world, 

Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 

Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 

To find ourselves dishonorable graves. 

Men at some time are masters of their fates: 

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 

But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 

Brutus, and Caesar: what should be in that Caesar? 

Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? 

Write them together, yours is as fair a name ; 

Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well ; 

Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure with them, 

Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. 

Now in the names of all the gods at once, 

Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, 

That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art shamed ! 

Borne, thou has lost the breed of noble bloods ! 

When went there by an age, since the great flood, 

But it was famed with more than with one man ? 

When could they say, till now, that talked of Borne, • 

That her wide walks encompassed but one man ? 

Now is it Borne indeed, and room enough, 

When there is in it but one only man. 

Oh, you and I have heard our fathers say, 

There was a Brutus once, that would have brooked 

Th ; eternal devil to keep his state in Borne, 

As easily as a king. 



MACLAINE'S CHILD. 

(CHARLES MACKAY.) 

"Maclaine! you've scourged me like a hound j 
You should have struck me to the ground ; 
You should have played a chieftain's part ; 
You should have stabbed me to the heart. 



266 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

"Yon should have crushed me unto death ;— 
But here I swear with living breath, 
That for this wrong which you have done, 
I'll wreak my vengeance on your son, — 

" On him, and you. and all your race ! " 
He said, and bounding from his place, 
He seized the child with sudden hold — 
A smiling infant, three years old — 

And starting like a hunted stag, 
He scaled the rock, he clomb the craig, 
And reached, o'er many a wide abyss, 
The beetling seaward precipice ; 

And leaning o'er its topmost ledge, 
He held the infant o'er the edge : — 
"In vain the wrath, thy sorrow vain; 
No hand shall save it, proud Maclaine!" 

With flashing eye and burning brow, 
i The mother followed, heedless how, 
O'er crags with mosses overgrown* 
And stair-like juts of slippery stone. 

But midway up the rugged steep, 
She found a chasm she could not leap, 
And kneeling on its brink, she raised 
Her supplicating hands, and gazed. 

"0, spare my child, my joy, my pride! 
0, give me back my child!" she cried: 
" My child ! my child ! " with sobs and tears, 
She shrieked upon his callous ears. 

"Come, Evan." said the trembling chief, — 
His bosom wrung with pride and grief, — 
"Restore the boy, give hack my son, 
And I'll forgive the wrong you've done." 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 267 

" I scorn forgiveness, haughty man ! 
You've injured me before the clan ; 
And nought but blood shall wipe away 
The shame I have endured to-day." 

And as he spoke, he raised the child, 
To dash it 'mid the breakers wild, 
But, at the mother's piercing cry, 
Drew back a step, and made reply :- 

" Fair lady, if your lord will strip, 
And let a clansman wield the whip, 
Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run, 
I'll give you back your little son." 

The lady's cheek grew pale with ire, 
The chieftain's eyes flashed sudden fire ; 
He drew a pistol from his breast, 
Took aim, — then dropped it, sore distressed. 

"I might have slain my babe instead. 
Come, Evan, come," the father said, 
And through his heart a tremor ran ; 
" We'll fight our quarrel man to man." 

« Wrong unavenged I've never borne," 
Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn ; 
(t You've heard my answer, proud Maclaine : 
I will not fight you, — think again." 

The lady stood in mute despair, 
With freezing blood and stiffening hair; 
She moved no limb, she spoke no word; — 
She could but look upon her lord. 

He saw the quivering of her eye, 
Pale lips and speechless agony, — 
And, doing battle with his pride, 
" Give back the boy, — I yield," he cried. 



268 THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 

A storm of passions shook his mind — 
Anger and shame and love combined ; 
But love prevailed, and bending low, 
He bared his shoulders to the blow. 

Ci I smite you," said the clansman true ; 
" Forgive me, chief, the deed I do ! 
For by yon Heaven that hears me speak, 
My dirk in Evan's heart shall reek ! " 

But Evan's face beamed hate and joy; 
Close to his breast he hugged the boy: 
" Revenge is just, revenge is sweet, 
And mine, Lochbuy, shall be complete." 

Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock, 
He threw the infant o'er the rock, 
Then followed with a desperate leap, 
Down fifty fathoms to the deep. 

They found their bodies in the tide ; 
And never till the day she died 
Was that sad mother known to smile — 
The Niobe of Mulla's isle. 

They dragged false Evan from the sea, 
And hanged him on a gallows tree ; 
And ravens fattened on his brain, 
To sate the vengeance of Maclaine. 



THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 

(R. & G. SOUTHEY.) 

Outstretched beneath the leafy shade 
Of Windsor forest's deepest glade, 

A dying woman lay ; 
Three little children round her stood, 
And there went up from the greenwood 

A woful wail that day. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 269 

" mother ! " was the mingled cry, 
" mother, mother ! do not die, 

And leave us all alone." 
"My blessed babes ! " she tried to say, 
But the faint accents died away 

In a low sobbing moan. 

And then, life struggling hard with death, 
And fast and strong she drew her breath, 

And up she raised her head ; 
And, peering through the deep wood maze 
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze, 

" Will she not come ? " she said. 

Just then the parting boughs between, 
A little maid's light form was seen, 

All breathless with her speed ; 
And following close, a man came on 
(A portly man to look upon,) 

W T ho led a panting steed. 

"Mother!" the little maiden»cried, 
Or e'er she reached the woman's side, 

And kissed her clay-cold cheek, — 
11 1 have not idled in the town, 
But long went wandering up and down, 

The minister to seek. 

"They told me here, they told me there, — 
I think they mocked me everywhere ; 

And when I found his home, 
And begged him on my bended knee 
To bring his book and come with me, 

Mother ! he would not come. 

" I told him how you dying lay, 
And could not go in peace away 

Without the minister: 
I begged him, for dear Christ, his sake, 
But 0, my heart was fit to break, — 

Mother ! he would not stir. 



270 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

" So, though my tears were blinding me, 
T ran back, fast as fast could be, 

To come again to you ; 
And here — close by — this squire I met, 
Who asked, so mild, what made me fret.; 

And when I told him true, — 

"'I will go with you, child,' he said, 
'God sends me to this dying bed/ — 

Mother, he's here, hard by." 
While thus the little maiden spoke, 
The man, his back against an oak, 

Looked on with glistening eye. 

The bridle on his neck hung free, 

With quivering flank and trembling knee, 

Pressed close his bonny bay; 
A statelier man, a statelier steed, 
Never on greensward paced, I rede, 

Than those stood there that day. 

So, while the little maiden spoke, 
The man, his back against an oak, 

X/odked on with glistening eye 
And folded arms, and in his3ook 
^Something that, like a sermon-book, 

Preached, — " All is vanity." 

iBut when the dying woman's face 
Turned toward him with a wishful gaze, 

He stepped to where she lay; 
And, kneeling down, bent over her, 
Saying, " I am a minister, 

My sister ! let us pray." 

And well, without a book or stole, 
(God's words were printed on his soul!) 

Into the dying ear 
He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain, 
The things that unto life pertain, 

And death's dark shadows clear. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 271 

He spoke of sinners' lost estate, 
In Christ renewed, regenerate, — 

Of God's most blest decree, 
That not a single soul should die 
Who turns repentant, with the cry 

" Be merciful to me," 

He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, 
Endured but for a little while 

In patience, faith, and love, — 
Sure, in God's ow r n good time, to be 
Exchanged for an eternity 

Of happiness above. 

Then as the spirit ebbed away, 

He raised his hands and eyes to pray 

That peaceful it might pass ; 
And then — the orphans' sobs alone 
Were heard, and they knelt, every one, 

Close round on the green grass. 

Such was the sight their wandering eyee 
Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise, 

Who reined their coursers back, 
Just as they found the long astray, 
Who, in the heat of chase that day, 

Had wandered from their track. 

But each man reined his pawing steed, 
And lighted down, as if agreed, 

In silence at his side ; 
And there, uncovered all, they stood, — 
It was a wholesome sight and good 

That day for mortal pride. 

For of the noblest of the land 

Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band 4 

And central in the ring, 
By that dead pauper on the ground, 
Her ragged orphans clinging round, 

"Knelt their anointed king." 



272 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 

(ALICE CARY.) 

good painter, tell me true, 

Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of things that you never saw? 

Ay ? Well, here is an order for you. 

Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — 
The picture must not be over-bright, 
Yet all in the golden and gracious light 

Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down 
Alway and alway, night and morn, 
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 
L^ing between them, not quite sere, 

And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, 

When the wind can hardly find breathing-room 
Under their tassels, — cattle near, 

Biting shorter the short green grass, 

And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 

With bluebirds twittering all around, — 

Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound !) 
These, and the house where I was born, 

Low and little, and black and old, 

With children, many as it can hold, 

All at the windows, open wide, — 

Heads and shoulders clear outside, 

And fair young faces all ablush : 

Perhaps you may have seen, some day 
Roses crowding the self-same way, 

Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, 

A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
Looked down upon, you must paint for me ; 
Oh, if I could only make you see 

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 
Tin* sovereign .sweetness, the gentle grace, 
The woman's soul, and the angel's face 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 273 

That are beaming on me all the while, 
I need not speak these foolish words : 
Yet one word tells you all I would say,— . 
She is my mother: you will agree 

That all the rest may be thrown away. 

Two little urchins at her knee 
You must paint, sir; one like me, 
The other with a clearer brow, 

And the light of his adventurous eyes 

[Flashing with boldest enterprise: 
At ten years old he went to sea, — 

God knoweth if he be living now ; 

He sailed in the good ship "Commodore," — * 
Nobody ever crossed her track 
To bring us news, and she never came back. 

Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 

With my great-hearted brother on her deck: 

I watched him till he shrank to a speck, 
And his face was toward me all the way. 
Bright his hair was, a golden brown, 

The time we stood at our mother's knee : 
That beauteous head, if it did go down, 

Carried sunshine into the sea ! 

Out in the fields one summer night 

We were together, half afraid 

Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade 
Of the high hills, stretching so still and far, — - 
Loitering till after the low little light 

Of the candle shone through the open door, 
And over the haystack's pointed top, 
All of a tremble, and ready to drop, 

The first halt-hour, the great yellow star, 

That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, 
Had often and often watched to see 

Propped and held in its place in the skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree, 

Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,— 
Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, 
18 



274 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER, 



From which it tenderly shook the dew 
Over our heads, when we came to play 
In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day. 

Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore 
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs ; 
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, 
Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, 
But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
So slim and shining, to keep her still. 

At last we stood at our mother's knee. 

Do you think, sir, if you try, 

You can paint the look of a lie ? 

If you can, pray have the grace 

To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me : 

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed : 

But that's no matter, — paint it so; 

The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) — 
Looking not on the nestful of eggs, 
"Not the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, 
But straight through our faces down to our lies, 
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise ! 

I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though 

A sharp blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know 
That you on the canvas are to repeat 
Things that are fairest, things most sweet,— 
Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree, — 
The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at her knee : 

But, oh, that look of reproachful woe! 
High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 



The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour: 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 275 



AFTEE THE BATTLE. 

Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not so ; 
There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow; 
There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there, 
And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair. 
Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night 
To search for our dead, yon would be a fair sight ? 

You're his wife; you love him — you think so; and I 
Am only his mother ; my boy shall not lie 
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear 
His form to a grave that mine own may soon share. 
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth, 
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth. 

You will go ! then no faintings ! Give me the light, 
And follow my footsteps, — my heart will lead right. 
Ah, God ! what is here ? a great heap of the slain, 
All mangled and gory ! — what horrible pain 
These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, ye weep, 
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep ! 

More ! more ! Ah ! I thought I could never more know 
Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below, 
Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell 
How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell. 
Did they think I cared then to see officers stand 
Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand ! 

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright, 
That your red hands turn over toward this dim light 
These dead men that stare so ? Ah, if you had kept 
Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left, 
You had heard that his place was worst of them all, — 
Not 'mid the stragglers, — where he fought he would fall. 

There's the moon through the clouds : Christ what a 

scene ! 
Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean, 



276 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine ? 
Hark, a groan ! there another, — here in this line 
Piled close on each other! Ah, here is the flag, 
Torn, dripping with gore ; — hah ! they died for this rag 

Here's the voice that we seek : poor soul, do not start ; 
We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart! 
Is there aught we can do? A message to give 
To any heloved one ? I swear, if I live, 
To take it for sake of the words my boy said, 
" Home," "mother," "wife," ere he reeled down 'mong 
the dead. 

But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood? 

Speak, speak, man, or point; 'twas the Ninth. Oh, the 

blood 
Is choking his voice ! What a look of despair! 
There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair 
From eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, my own, 
My hands were both idle when you died alone. 

He's dying — he's dead ! Close his lids, let us go. 
God's peace on his soul ! If we only could know 
Where our own dear one lies ! — my soul has turned sick; 
Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick ? 
I cannot ! I cannot ! How eager you are ! 
One mi glit think you were nursed on the red lap of Wat. 

He's not here, — and not here. What wild hopes flash 

through 
My thoughts, as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew, 
And cast up a prayer to the blue quiet sky ! 
Was it you, girl, that shrieked? Ah! what face doth lie 
Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white ? 
God, my brain reels ! 'Tis a dream. My old sight 

Is dimmed with these horrors. My son ! oh, my son! 
Would I had died for thee, my own, only one! 
There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast 
Where first lie was lulled, with my soul's hymn, to rest. 
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss 
As mine to his baby-touch; was it for this? 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 277 

He was yours, too ; he loved you? Yes, yes, you're right, 
Forgive rue, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. 
Don't moan so, dear child ; you're young, and your years 
May still hold fair hopes ; hut the old die of tears. 
Yes, take him again ; — ah ! don't lay your face there ; 
See, the hlood from his wound has stained your loose hair. 

How quiet you are ! Has she fainted ? — her cheek 

Is cold as his own. Say a word to me. — speak ! 

Am I crazed? Is she dead! Has her heart broke first? 

Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst. 

I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead: 

Those corpses are stirring ; God help my poor head ! 

I'll sit by my children until the men come 

To bury the others, and then we'll go home. 

Why, the slain are all dancing ! Dearest, don't move. 

Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by love. 

Lullaby, lullaby; sleep, sweet darling, sleep \ 

God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep. 



YOU PUT NO FLO WEES ON MY PAPA'S GEAVE. 

(C. E. L. HOLMES.) 

With sable-draped banners, and slow, measured tread,. 
The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; 
And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests, 
Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast. 

Ended at last is the labor of love ; 
Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move— 
A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, 
Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; 
Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child 
Besought him in accents which grief rendered wild: 

"Oh ! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave — 
Why! why! did you pass by my dear papa's grave? 
I know he was poor, but as kind and as true 
As ever marched into the battle with you — 
His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot 
You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not 



278 TI1E LAWRENCE RECITER. 

For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, 
And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. 
He didn't die lowly — he poured his heart's blood, 
In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod 
Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight — 
And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!* 
O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, 
But you haven't put one on my papa's grave. 
If mamma were here — but she lies by his side, 
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died." 

" Battalion ! file left ! countermarch ! " cried the chief, 

"This young orphan'd maid hath full cause for her grief." 

Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, 

He lifted the maiden, while in through the gate 

The long line re-passes, and many an eye 

Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. 

"This way, it is — here, sir — right under this tree; 
They lie close together, with just room for me." 

" Halt ! Cover with roses each lowly green mound — 

A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground." 

" Oh ! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay 

The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; 

But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 

*Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. 

I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma too — 

I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true ; 

And they will both bless you, I know, when I say 

How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day — 

How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest, 

And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast; 

And when the kind angels shall call you to come, 

We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home, 

Where Death never comes, his black banners to wave, 

And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." 



Let godlike Reason, from her sovereign throne, 
Speak the commanding word, I will! — and it is done. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 279 

THE WATEK-MILL. 

(d. c. mccallum.) 

Oh! listen to the water-mill, through all the live-long day, 
As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away ; 
How languidly the autumn wind doth stir the withered 

leaves, 
As on the field the reapers sing, while binding up the 

sheaves ! 
A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast, 
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 

Soft summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er 

earth and main, 
The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered grain ; 
The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tranquil, deep and 

still, 
But never glideth back again to busy water-mill. 
The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and 

vast, 
" The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 

Oh ! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and 

true, 
For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing too; 
Ah ! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy 

day, 
For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown 

away ; 
Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow 

broadcast — 
" The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 

Oh ! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by, 
Alas ! the good we might have done, all gone without a 

sigh; 
Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly 

word, 
Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing un- 
penned, unheard. 
Oh ! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast, 
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 



280 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of 
strength and will, 

The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water- 
mill; 

Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy 
way, 

For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase 
to-day ; 

Possessions, power and blooming health must all be lost 
at last — 

"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 

Oh ! love thy God and fellow man, thyself consider last, 
For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the 

past; 
Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede from 

view, 
And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and 

true. 
Ah ! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep 

and vast, 
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 



ADVENTURE OF A UNIVERSALIST. 

(PHILIP LAWRENCE.) 

One of the most eloquent Preachers of the Tlniversa- 
list faith was travelling westward a few years ago, and 
being very fearful of an attack of fever and ague he 
took the precaution of providing himself with a box of 
chill pills, and also a bottle of cayenne pepper, which he 
always carried in his pocket. On the Sunday morning 
after his arrival he preached in the Universalist church 
with his usual fervor and eloquence. While preaching 
he noticed a tall, eager-looking man who appeared to be 
deeply interested. When the minister returned to the 
hotel the aforesaid individual rushed up to him, and 
clasping him by the hand, said: "Oh parson, I was so 
delighted with your sarmon this morning! I allous had a 
monstrous dislike to being roasted with fire and brimstone 
after I died, and when you told me there was no real Hell 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 281 

I felt I didn't care a cuss for a sham one, so parson, 
you're the man for me ; I wish you'd come our way, for 
there's some of our boys who'd he deuced glad to* hear 
you." 

The minister thanked him for his good opinion, and 
promised to visit his place the first time he was going that 
way. The same day, while seated at the dinner table, 
before he commenced his* dinner, he took out the bottle 
and proceeded to sprinkle his meat with the pepper. The 
lanky individual, who was seated opposite to him, watched 
him very closely, and, before he could return the bottle to 
his pocket, said : " I say, Parson, I'd like a little of that 
are what-you-m ay-call-em, it looks monstrous nice, and I 
feel kind o' curious to taste it." " With great pleasure," 
replied the minister, " but let me caution you about the 
quantity you take, as it is very powerful." The curious 
man took the bottle, and feeling liquor-proof, had no fear 
of the what-you-may-call-em, so cutting a lump of beef he 
covered it liberally all over with the pepper, and popped it 
into his mouth. It soon took hold of throat, mouth, and 
stomach, his eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets, 
his features began to writhe in every shape, and at last, 
clapping his hands on his stomach, he opened his mouth 
to its widest extent, and shouted out, " Fire ! Murder ! 
Thieves ! " " Here," said the minister, " drink a glass of 
water." "Will that put it out?" cried the victim, swal- 
lowing glassful after glassful. At last, after many sighs 
and groans, the poor fellow felt some relief, and the tears 
streaming down his cheeks, he turned to the minister and 
said, " A Varsalist, I believe ? " "I am," replied the min- 
ister. "Waal, I want you to tell me one thing ! How 
can you make it consistent with your belief, to go about 
carrying hell-fire in your coat pocket?" 



BETSY AND I AEE OUT. 
(will. m. carleton.) 

Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and 

stout, 
For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are 

out,— 



282 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

We who have worked together so long as man and wife 
Must pull in single harness the rest of our nat'ral life. 

" What is the matter/' says you? I swan! it's hard to 

tell ! 
Most of the years behind us we've passed by very well; 
I have no other woman — she has no other man; 
Only we've lived together as long as ever we can. 

So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me ; 
And we've agreed together that we can never agree; 
Not that we've catched each other in any terrible crime ; 
We've been a gatherin' this for years, a little at a time. 

There was a stock of temper we both had, for a start; 
Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take us two apart ; 
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone, 
And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own. 

The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed, 

Was somethin' concernin' heaven — a difference in our 

creed ; 
We arg'ed the thing at breakfast — we arg'ed the thing at 

tea — 
And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we couldn't 

agree. 

And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow; 
She had kicked the bucket, for certain — the question was 

only — How ? 
I held my opinion, and Betsy another had; 
And when we were done a talkin', we both of us was mad. 

And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; 
But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke. 
And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl ; 
And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn't any soul. 

And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way; 
Always somethin' to ar'ge and something sharp to say, — 
And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o' dozen 

strong, 
And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 283 

And there have been days together — and many a weary 

week — 
When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too 

proud to speak ; 
And I have been thinkin' and thinking the whole of the 

summer and fall, 
If 1 can't live kind with a woman, why, then I won't at all. 

And so I've talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with 

me ; 
And we have agreed together that we can never agree; 
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be 

mine; 
And I'll put it in the agreement and take it to her to sign. 

Write on the paper, lawyer — the very first paragraph — 
Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half; 
For she has helped to earn it, through many a weary day, 
And it's nothin' more than justice that Betsy has her pay. 

Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and 

roam, 
But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home. 
And I have always determined, and never failed to say, 
That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken 

away. 

There's a little hard money besides, that's drawin' tol'rable 

pay, 
A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day, — 
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at ; 
Put in another clause there, and give her all of that. 

I see that you are smiling, sir, at mj T givin' her so much; 
Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such; 
True and fair I married her, when she was blithe aud 

young, 
And Betsy was always good to me, exceptin' with her 

tongue. 

When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps, 
For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps; 
And all of 'em was flustered, and fairly taken down, 
And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town. 



284 THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 



Once, when I had a fever— I won't forget it soon — 
I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon — 
Never an hour went By me when she was out of sight; 
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and 
night. 

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean. 
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen, 
And I don't complain of Betsy or any of her acts, 
Excepting when we've quarreled, and told each other facts. 

So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I'll go home to-night, 
And read the agreement to her and see if it's all right ; 
And then in the mornin' I'll sell to a trading man I 

know — 
And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world 

I'll go. 

And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't 

occur; 
That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her, 
And lay me under the maple we planted years ago, 
When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so. 

And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me; 
And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll then agree; 
And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't think it queer 
If we loved each other the better because we've quarreled 
here. 



THE END. 



THE LAWRENCE SCHOOL OF 
ELOCUTION AND ACTING, 

Founded by PROF. PHILIP LAWRENCE, 1869, 

124 West 23d Street, N. Y. 
EDWIN GORDON LAWRENCE, Director. 

This school is open for the reception of pupils of both sexes. Every 
accomplishment and art pertaining to the Stage will be taught by 
competent teachers, especially emotional acting, graceful gestures, 
eloquent delivery, voice culture, and Stage business. 

Every feeling and emotion of the human heart can be expressed by 
the tones of the voice ; and as, by appropriate gesture, every thing we 
say can be made plain to the understanding through the sight, so also, 
by giving every word its proper sound, can it be made perfectly 
intelligible to the ear. Therefore, as this can be done only by a fin- 
ished reader or orator, I repeat, the living teacher alone can instruct in 
Elocution. 

While studying this noble art, remember that Elocution is not a 
science that can be learned entirely from books ; it is an art, and can 
be thoroughly imparted by the living teacher alone. 

Ladies and Gentlemen who have received Instruction at 
this School and achieved success in their Profession: 

MISS ADELAIDE NEILSON, The Unrivalled Actress. 

MISS MARGARET MATHER, The Great American 
Actress* 

PROF. SHOEMAKER, President National School of 
Oratory, Philadelphia, Pa. 

MRS. RACHEL SHOEMAKER, Teacher of Elocution. 

MISS MINNIE SWAYZE, Teacher of Elocution* 

MISS M. E. SAXTON, Actress and Teacher* 

MISS CARRIE TURNER, Actress. 

MISS EDITH KINGDON, Actress. 

MISS LILLIAN OLCOTT, Actress. 

MISS GRACE HILTON, Actress. 

MISS EMMA FOSSETT. Actress, 

MISS DAISY CHAPLAN, Actress. 

PROF. GEORGE S. HILLIARD, Teacher of Elocution. 

MISS WYCHAM, Teacher of Elocution,, 

MR. CHAS. H. HOPPER, Actor. 

MR. EDWARD N. HOYT, Actor. 

MISS JULIA ANDERSON, Actress, 
Aud many others 



TERMS ON APPLICATION. 



PRESS OPINIONS 

EDWIN GORDON LAWRENCE 

— AS AN — 

ACTOR AND ELOCUTIONIST. 



San Francisco Daily Report, October 22 r 1887. 
* * * Mr. Lawrence being " to the manor born," and a talented actor 
as well, has already proved himself an admirable teacher and a 
splendid artist. 

Washington Critic, January 30, 1888. 
Mr. Edwin Lawrence is the son of the celebrated elocutionist, the 
late Prof. Philip Lawrence, and was connected with his father in the 
management of their schools at Yonkers and New York. Adelaide 
Neilson and Margaret Mather were among the pupils of Prof. Lawrence ; 
and Mr. Edwin Lawrence possesses, in an equal degree, the elocutionary 
talents for which his father was distinguished. 



New York Sunday Mercury, November 1 8, 1888. 
Mr. Edwin Lawrence is a recognized elocutionist and teacher of the 
first class, and is a master of graceful gesture and vocal training. 

Syracuse, N. Y., Eiening Herald, January 29, 1889. 
Edwin Lawrence, as "Count Vladimir Danicheff," sustained his 
reputation as a fine actor. 

Sing Sing, N Y., Standard, January 16, 1880. 
* # * The gem of the evening was in several scenes from " Romeo and 
Juliet" as impersonated and rendered by Mr. Edwin Lawrence and 
Miss Margaret Mather. We have many times witnessed this play, but 
never have we seen it more beautifully rendered than on that evening. 
Mr. Lawrence's " Romeo " was perfection itself and all that could be 
desired, while Miss Mather's " Juliet" was superb. * * * 

New York Theatrical World, February 10, 1891. 
The Lawrence School of Acting, at 124 West 23d St., is a model one 
in every particular. 

Newark, N J., Sunday Call, November 30, 1890. 
Edwin Lawrence made a capital " Iago." 

Newark, N J., Sunday Standard, November 30, 1890. 
Edwin Lawrence, Director of the School of Acting, played "Iago" 
in a most artistic manner. 

New York Clipper, January 24, 1891. 
Director Edwin Lawrence is an actor of experience and standing, 
and his pupils are sure to profit by his advice. 

New York Dramatic News, January 5, 1881. 
Mr. Edwin Lawrence is possessed of a strong, clear and melodious 
voice, and his gestures are uoth graceful aud powerful. 



America's Greatest Actor. 



LIFE OF EDWIN FORREST 



BY JAMES REES (COLLEY CIBBER). 



The Life of Edwin Forrest, with Reminiscences and 
Personal Recollections of the Great American Tragedian, by 
James Rees (Colley Gibber), is published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 
No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. No man in the country was as 
well fitted for writing the Life of Mr. Forrest as Mr. Rees, for the acquaint- 
ance of Mr. Rees with Mr. Forrest dated from boyhood. Mr. Rees had 
enjoyed for a period of nearly fifty years the closest intimacy and friend- 
ship with the celebrated tragedian, and this gave him advantages, not 
possessed by any others, to write a correct and truthful history of Mr. 
Forrest, from the time of his birth until his death. The volume con- 
tains a full and complete history of Mr. Forrest's life, from the time of 
his birth until the time of his death, as well as reminiscences, personal 
recollections, and many anecdotes and incidents which have never 
beeo published before. It is published in one large duodecimo volume 
of over Five Hundred pages, and is printed from new type, on fine 
white paper. Every copy of the work contains a life-like portrait of 
Edwin Forrest, engraved on steel, in line and stipple, from the last 
picture for which Mr. Forrest sat, and which he pronounced to be the 
best portrait ever taken of himself, as well as a copy of his Autograph, 
his Last Will in Full, and the Charter of " The Edwin Forrest Home," 
which he endowed. The book is published in paper cover, at One 
Dollar a copy, or another edition is issued, bound in morocco cloth, 
gilt back, at Two Dollars a copy, mailed on receipt of price. 



"EDWIN FORREST" as " SPARTACUS." 

T. IJ. Peterson & Brothers have just published a large and very fine 
photograph of Edwin FORREST, at the age of forty, representing him 
as he appeared on the stage in his great character of "Spartacus" in Dr. 
Bird's celebrated play of the "Gladiator. 11 The size of the photograph 
is 11 x 14 inches, and the size of the card, for framing, is 16 x 20 
inches. It is perfectly life-like, Mr. Forrest having sat in character for 
the original picture; and it is from the original picture this photograph 
has been taken, by one of the most celebrated artists in this country, 
F. Gutekunst, of Philadelphia. Price, Two Dollars a copy, and it will 
be sent by Express to any one on receipt of price. 



* Special rates to Clubs of ten for either of above. 

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Jf^Petersons' Books are sold by all Booksellers.^^ 



"ZITKA."— THE GREAT RUSSIAN PLAY.— "ZITKA." 



ZITKA; 

OR, 

THE TRIALS OF RAISSA. 

A RUSSIAN LOVE STORY, FROM WHICH BOOK THE POPULAR PLAY OF 
"ZITKA "-NOW BEWG PERFORMED AND DRAWING CROWDED HOUSES 
AT ALL THE PRINCIPAL THEATRES IN THE UNITED STATES- 
WAS DRAMATIZED BY THE LATE WILLIAM CARLETON. 

BY HENRY GREVILLE. 

AUTHOR OF " DOSIA," " SAVELl's EXPIATION," " MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER," " SONIA,'* 

"THE PRINCESS OGKEROF," " MARKOF," "mAM'zELLE EUGENIE," " DOURNOF," " A FRIEND," 

"SYLVIE's BETROTH-ED," " GABRIELLE," " BONNE-MARIE," " PHILCMENe's MARRIAGES," 

" LUCIE EODEY," ** XENIE'S INHERITANCE," " PRETTY LITTLE COUNTESS ZINA," ETC. 



"Zitka; ok, The Trials of Raissa," from which "Zitka," the most success* 
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of the best and most powerful of Henry Gr faille's many fine novels. The play of 
u Zitka " has already made the fortune of its author's little daughter, Marie, is one 
of the greatest successes New York has ever known, and is now being performed and 
drawing crowded Iiouses in all the principal theatres throughout the United States. 
All who propose seeing " Zitka," or those that have seen it, slwuld read this great Rus- 
sian romance, " Zitka," from which it was dramatized. The novel has more strength 
and fascination than u The Two Orphans" and. is fully equal to Madame Greville } s 
"Dosia" which was crowned by the French Academy. " ZlTKA " . the play and 
" ZlTKA " the novel are treats that should go together. 



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The Sequel to " The Count of Monte-Cristo." 

EDMOND DANTES. 

THE SEGiTJEL TO 

The Count of Monte-Cristo, by ASexander Dumas. 

"Edmond D antes" the Sequel to Alexander Dumas' great novel, " The Count of 
Monte-Cristo" is one of the most wonderful romances ever issued, and is published 
only by T. B. Peterson 6r> Brothers. It teems with absorbing interest throughout, the 
narrative dashing on from one intensely exciting incident to another equally thrilling, 
and this, too, without the slightest pause. Just at the point ' where " 7 he Count of 
Monte-Cristo" ends "Edmond Dantes" takes up the thread of the grandly conceivea 
Plot and develops at once into a work of rare power, thorough originality and irresist- 
ible fascination. The volcaiiic storm on the Mediterranean, in which the Alcyon, 
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burning of Monte Cristo^ palace are in the highest degree graphic and dramatic. 
Further on comes a striking and minute account of the French Revolution of 1848, 
with the fierce struggles in the Chamber of Deputies and the bloody battles at the bar* 
ricades in the streets of Paris. The love element is plentifully represented in the 
romantic reunion of Dantes and Merckdes, Captain Jolietie' , s cowtship of the myste~ 
rious prima donna and the telling scenes between Dantes 1 daughter, Zuleika, and her 
Italian admirer, the Viscount Massetti. 1 he hero of the charming novel is, of course, 
Edmond Dantes, the Deputy from Marseilles, who appears as a politiciafi labo?'ing 
to ameliorate the condition of the oppressed classes of mankind and employing his im- 
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co-workers being the foremost communists of that time, namely, Lamartine, Ledru 
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Odillon Barrot, General Lamoriciere, General Bugeaud and other famous historical 
characters are introduced, as well as Lucien Debray, Chateau- Renaud, Beauchamp, 
Maximilian Morell, Albert de Morcerf, Valentine de Villefort, Eugenie Danglars, 
Louise d'Armilly and Monte- Crises Son, Espkrance, to say nothing of Bated etto and 
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MONTE-CRISTQ'S DAUGHTER 

Petersons 9 Editions of "Monte-Cristo Series.'* 

» >, ^ .» » 

tlONTE-CRISTO'S DAUGHTER. Sequel to Alexander Dumas' Cele 
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one large duodecimo volume, paper cover, price 75 cents, or $1.25 in cloth. 

fGDMONB DANTES. The Sequel to " The Count of Monte- Cristo," by Alex 
ander Dumas. " Edmond Dantes" is one of the most wonderful romances eve* 
issued. Tust at the point where "The Count of Monte-Cristo " ends, "Edmonc 
Dantis" takes up the fascinating narrative and continues it with marvelloa 
power and absorbing interest unto the end. Every person that has read " Th- 
Count of Monte-Cristo" should get "Edmond Dantes" at once, and read ii 
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EHE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO. Petersons" New Illustrate 
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THE WIFE OF MONTE-CRISTO. Being the Continuation of AUjc 
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ffHE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. Bein^ the Sequel to "The Wife o) 
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f*?E COUNTESS OF MONTE-CRISTO. Being the Companion to 
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fully equal to that world-renowned novel. At the very commencement of ihg 
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MS BREITMAI'S BALLADS, 

NEW, ENLARGED, AND COMPLETE EDITION. 
IBY CHARLES Gk LEH.-A.3STID- 

AUTHOR OF "MEISTER KARL'S SKETCH BOOK." 

WITH PORTRAIT and AUTOGRAPH OF THE AUTHOR. 



3Iessrs. T. B. Peterson & Brothers, of Philadelphia, have just published a new, com* 
plete and elegant edition of "Hans Breitmann's Ballads/ 7 with a Portrait of "Ham 
Breitmann, 11 as well as a Portrait and Autograph of the Author, Charles G. Lcland, 
Esq. It comprises all the Ballads ever written by Hans Breitmann, fifty-si? in all, 
containing his entire five books, viz. : "Hans Breitmann 1 s Party ; with Other Ballads 11 
fi Hans Breitmann About Town ; and Other Ballads, 11 "Hans Breitmann in Church; 
and Other Ballads, 11 u Hans Breitmann as an Uhlan; with Other Neiv Ballads, 11 and 
^Hans Breitmann in Europe ; with Other New Ballads, 11 being the "First, 11 li Second, 11 
** Third, 11 "Fourth, 11 and "Fifth Series 11 of the famous "Breitmann Ballads 11 with a 
Complete Glossary to the whole work. As a writer of humorous dialect verses, Hans 
Breitmann stands alone, and all will recall the delight they experienced when Mr* 
Iceland's humorous Ballad of "Hans Breitmann 1 s Party 11 first made its appearance; 
and now that all his Ballads are in one volume, it will be welcomed with renewed 
pleasure. The humor of Leland's volume is well expressed in the opening ballad: 

"Hans Breitmann gife a barty — dey had biano-blayin ; 
I felled in lofe mil a Merican frau, her name was Madilda Yans, 
She hat haar as proivn ash a pretzel, her eyes vas himmcl-plue, 
Vnd ven dey looket indo mine, dey shplit mine heart in two. 11 

The fertility of Leland's imagination was very 
great. Ballad after ballad with widely varied themes 
and changing character were thrown off with easy 
rapidity, and from none were there wanting that 
relish for the comic, that rough but kindly bonhom- 
mie which first floated them into favor. It is only 
on looking through a volume like this that one gets 
an idea of how much work and what good icork 
the author has done. Mr. Leland is a master of 
dialect, a specialist, so to speak, and the jargon in 
which he writes has a positive value as a j)hilo- 
logical study. As a, result, Hans Breitmann has 
become a classical figure, and his Ballads are well 
worthy, for their wit, wisdom and, pathos, of the 
elegant and enduring form in which they are now 
presented to the public, and they will continue to b< 
a source of pleasure to thousands long after th* 
incidents, upon which some of them were founded^ 
have been forgotten. The volume is complete in o 
large octavo volume, printed on the finest ti n fed plate paper, and bound in morocco 
cloth, with beveled boards, with full gilt edges, side, and back. Price Four Dollars, 




HAN, liKEITMANN. 



ow 

5? 

ne 
xo 



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i( I consider k IshmaeV to be my very best 
book" — Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 



. E. D. E. N. Southworth's Last and Best Book. 



IRS. SOUTHWORTH'S GREAT M NEW YORK LEDGER" STORY. 

IS H MA EL 

OR, fN THE DEPTHS. 

BY MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 

Being Mrs. Southworth's Greatest "New York Ledger " Story. 
ONE VOLUME, MOROCCO CLOTH.— PRICE $1.50. 



MBS. EMMA JD. E. N. SOUTHWORTH'S COMTLETJBi 
TVORKS* An entire new edition has just been published, in duodecimo form, 
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* This edition contains a new Portrait of Mrs. Southworth, and her Autograph* 
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%^?**Mrs. Southworth? s books have great originality, fine descriptions, startling 
incidents, scenes of pathos, are of pure moral tone, and should be read by everybody. 

f $g$*Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth is acknowledged to be the greatest of all Amer 
lean female writers, and a set of her books should be in every home and in every library 



Copies of "ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS," Mrs. Southworth 
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EACH IS IN OXE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME, CLOTH, GILT BACK, PRICE $1.50 EACH. 
Copies of all or any will be sent postpaid, to any place, on receipt of remittances. 

ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. ('Self-Made; or, Out of Depths.') 
SELF-RAISED ; or, From the Depths. The Sequel to " Ishmael." 
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery. 
TRIED FOR HER LIFE. The Sequel to " Cruel as the Grave." 
THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 
VICTOR'S TRIUMPH. The Sequel to "A Beautiful Fiend." 
THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 
THE MAIDEN WIDOW. The Sequel to "The Family Doom." 
FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN-HATER. 
HOW HE WON HER. The Sequel to "Fair Play." 
A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 
THE LADY OF THE ISLE ; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 
THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, Winning Her Way. 
THE BRIDE'S FATE. The Sequel to " The Changed Brides." 
THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers. 
A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to " The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.' 1 
THE " MOTHER-IN-LAW;" or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 
THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle. 
FALLEN PRIDE: or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL'S LOVE. 
THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL. 
THE TWO SISTERS; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 
THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 
THE GIPSY'S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening. 
THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, The Fall of the House of Flint 
THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, the Bridal Day. 
THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, SHANNONDALE. 
THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse. 
INDIA ; or, PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. 
WIDOW'S SON; or, LEFT ALONE. THE WIFE'S VICTORY, 
THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. THE SPECTRE LOVER. 
ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, EUDORA. THE ARTISTS LOVE. 
THE BRIDAL EVE. (ROSE ELMER.) THE FATAL SECRET. 

VIVIA; or, SECRET OF POWER. LOVE'S LABOR W0N o 

THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. THE LOST HtlRESS. 

BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. DESERTED WIFE. RETRIBUTION. 
p&* Mr -a. Southworth's works will be found for sale by all Bookseller*. 
< opies of any one, or more of Mrs. Stmt h worth's works, will be seni te 
my place, post-paid, on remitting price of the ones wanted to the Publisher^ 

V. IS, PJGTJEKSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 



Mrs. Ann S. Stephen s' Works 

23 Volumes, at $1.50 each; or $34.50 a Set. 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, ifcj 
lave just published am entire new, complete, and uniform edition of all the worJcs write 
ten by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, the popular American Authoress. This edition « t* 
iuodecimo form, is printed 07i the finest paper, is complete in twenty-three volumes, an4 
iach volume is bound in morocco cloth, library style, with a full gilt back, and is sold oi 
the low price of $1.50 each, or $34.50 for a full and complete set of the twenty-three vol* 
umes. Every Family, Reading Club, and every Private or Public Library in this 
country, should have in it a complete set of this new and beautiful edition of ih% 
works of Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. The following are the names of the volumes : 

FASHION AND FAMINE, THE REIGNING BELLE. 

BERTHA'S ENGAGEMENT. MARRIED IN HAST& 

BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE; or, Bought with a Price. 

LORD HOPE'S CHOICE; or, More Secrets Than One. 
THE OLD COUNTESS. Sequel to "Lord Hope's Choice," 
RUBY GRAY'S STRATEGY; or, Married by Mistake. 

PALACES AND PRISONS; or, The Prisoner of the B as tile. 
A NOBLE WOMAN ; or, A Gulf Between Them. 
THE CURSE OF GOLD ; or, The Bcund Girl and The Wife's Trials. 
MABEL'S MISTAKE ; or, The Lost Jewels. 

THE OLD HOMESTEAD; or, The Pet of the Poor Hou** 
THE REJECTED W*FE; or, The Ruling Passion. 
SILENT STRUGGLES; or, Barbara Stafford. A TaJe of Witchcraft, 
THE HEIRESS; or, The Gipsy's L^acy. 
THE WIFE'S SECRET; or, GUIfeifc 

WIVES AND WIDOWS; or, The Broken Ufa. 
OOUBLY FALSE; ^r, Alike and Not Alike, 

THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS. THE GOLD BRICK, 

MARY DERWENT. NORTON'S REST. 

$&* Above books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.50 *ach, or $34.50 for a eo*m 
pUte set of the twenty-three volumes. Copies of either one +r more of the above booh* 
%r a complete set of them, will be sent at once to any one. to an*; vlace, pc§$o0 
*-^ irid, or free of freight, on remitting their price in a letter t<* the Piibitsher% 

T. B, PETERSON & BROTHERS, PM*aUeU>*aia* Vm 



MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS. 

LIBRARY EDITION, IN MOROCCO CLOTH. 



12 Volumes, at S1.50 Each; or $18.00 a Set. 



T. B. PETERSON & BBOTHEBS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Phila- 
delphia, have just published an entire new, complete, and uniform edition of 
all the celebrated Novels written by the popular American Novelist, Mrs. Car- 
oline Lee Hentz* in twelve large duodecimo volumes. They are printed on the 
fwest paper, and bound in the most beautiful style, in Green Morocco cloth, 
%nth a new, full gilt back, and sold at the low price of $1.5i» each, or $18.00 
for a full and complete set. Every Family r nd every Library in this country, 
should have in it a complete set of this new j>nd beautiful edition of the works 
of Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. The following is a complete list of 

MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS. 

LINDA; or, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. 

With a Complete Biography of Mrs. Caroline Lee Kentz. 

ROBERT GRAHAM. A Sequel to " Linda." 

RENA; or, THE SNOW BIRD. A Tele of Real Life. 

MARCUS WARLAND; or, The Long Moss Spring. 

ERNEST LINWOOD ; or, The Inner Life of the Author. 

EOLINE; or, MAGNOLIA VALE; or, The Heiress of Glenmore. 

THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE ; or, Mrs. Hentz's Childhood. 

HELEN AND ARTHUR ; or, Miss Thusa's Spinning-Wheel. 

COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; or, The Joys of American Life. 

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE; and other Stories of the Heart. 

THE LOST DAUGHTER ; and other Stories of the Heart. 

THE BANISHED SON ; and other Stories of the Heart. 

HgT Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.50 each, or $18.00 for 
a complete set of the twelve volumes. Copies of either one of the above works, or 
u complete set of them, will be sent at once to any one, to any place, postagt 
vre-paid, i>r frt e affreight, on remitting their price in a h tter to the Publishers, 

T. B. I'ETISKSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Fa. 



DE MOLAI: 

THE 

LAST OF THE MILITARY GRAND MASTERS OF THE 
ORDER OF TEMPLAR KNIGHTS. 

BY EDMUND FLA66, 

3F VIRGINIA, A TEMPLAR KNIGHT, AND AUTHOR OF ''THE PRIME MINISTER," "THE BRIGAND, - 

"THE MARTYR-STUDENT," "MARION DE LORME," " LUCY ASHLIN," "THE FAR WEST," 

"THE HOWARD QUEEN," " THE NORTH-WEST," " SKETCHES OF A TRAVELLER," 

"THE DUCHESS OF FERARA," "VENICE! THE CITY OF THE SEA," 

"BEATRICE OF PADUA," " GABRIELLE DE VERGI," ETC. 



"De Molai : the hast of the Military Grand Masters of the Order of Templaf 
Knights" is a powerful, picturesque and absorbing novel of the Fourteenth Century , 
historical in character and crowded with information conveyed in the most pleasing 
manner. The seme is laid principally in Paris, and the the?7ie is the suppression 
of the Order of Knights Templar by Philip the Fourth of France. Throughout the 
romance town's the commanding form of jfacques de Molai, the noble old warrior- 
monk, who was ready to bear the tortures of the Inquisition, and even to suffer mar- 
tyrdom at the stake, for the cause of the persecuted Order of which he was the chief. 
A complete history of the Knights Temolar is given, which will be found of great 
value and interest by the Masonic Fraternity as well as by the general reader. The 
descriptions of old Paris and of the abbeys and castles of that day are vividly and 
vigorously drawn. The loves of Blanche of Artois and Adrian de Marigni are set 
forth in glowing style, and the narrative of the disappointed affections of sweet Marie 
Morfontaine is replete with tender pathos. Blanche 's share in the persecution of the 
Knights Templar and her untiring efforts to procure revenge against the Order form 
an important element of the novel, and add effectiveness to the strong plot. The 
compact between Philip the Fourth and Bertrand de Goth in the Abbey of St. fean 
(TAngely during the thunderstorm is a highly dramatic incident, as is also Marie 
Morfontaine' s discovery of Adrian's treachery, while the scene in Notre Dame in 
which the Grand Master figures so conspicuously is intensely exciting. The political 
intrigues of the king and the Roman Pontiff claim a large share of attention, as also 
do the flirtations of the ladies of the French court with the noble gallants of the period, 
who were as ardent in love as they were brave in war. The fate of Blanche of 
Artois is to some extent a compensation for her evil deeds, and the final denouement 
of the romance is a happy one. "De Molai" is undoubtedly destined to become a 
Standard work of permanent popularity It will be read with vast interest and enjoy- 
ment by all Templar Knights, the whole Masonic Fraternity, scholars and the public. 



Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.50. 

"De Molai: the Last of the Military Grand Masters of the Order of Templar 
Knights" is issued in a large duodecimo volume, and will be found for sale by all 
Booksellers ant by all News Agents eve iy where. 

Canvassers wanted in every Lodge to canvass and get subscribers to it. 

Copies 7V/11 be sent to any one, to any place, on remitting price to the publishers^ 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa, 



%i 



;• 

Petersons 9 Complete and Unabridged Editions. 






Foremost among the greatest novels of any age stand the Jive absorbing romances 
farming "The Three Guardsmen Series" as published by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, 
They are entitled respectively "The Three Guardsmen; or } The Three Mousquetaires," 
u Twenty Years After," the Sequel to "The Three Guardsmen, 71 "Bragelonne, the Son 
sf Athos; or, Ten Years Later," "The Iron Mask; or, The Feats and Adventures of 
Eaoul de Bragelonne" and "Louise de la Valliere" the Sequel to "The Iron Mask," 
mnd conclusion of the famous "Three Guardsmen Series." Written by the world-re* 
downed novelist, Alexander Dumas, the best and, most powerful writer of fiction Francr 
has ever produced, when first published they created an excitement unparalleled in 
Uttrary annals, and their vast popularity has been steadily maintained ever since. 
This cannot be wondered at when the books are read, for their fascination, strength 
etnd interest are unexampled. The original translations from the French of these 
superb romances were made by that celebrated translator, Thomas Williams, Esq.,fo+ 
T B. Peterson & Brothers, and are published only by them. They are altogether 
complete and unabridged, faithfully reproducing every line that Dumas wymote just as 
it came from his pen, without the slightest editing, adaptation or modification. They 
are historical romances, filled to overflowing with love, stirring adventures, gallantry \ 
soldierly daring and manliness, plots and counterplots, dark deeds, political machi- 
nations, virtue, vice, innocence and guilt. D y Arta,gnan, Athos, Aramis and Portltoi 
are the leading personages, and hosts of others fill their varied and important roles. 
Much light is thrown upon the history of France and the French Court, and that mys* 
tery which puzzled the world for nearly two centuries, the identity of the Prisoner in 
the Iron Mask, is completely solved in a manner so powerful, interesting and ingeni- 
ous that this episode alone makes this series invaluable. 

THE THREE GUARDSMEN, or THE THREE MOUSQUETAIRES. 

By Alexander Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq. Paper cover, 
75 cents; morocco cloth, Library style, $1.75. 

TWENTY YEARS AFTER. The Sequel to "The Three Guardsmen." By 
Alexander Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq. Being the "Sec- 
ond Book " of " The Three Guardsmen Series." Paper cover, 75 cents ; mo 
rocco cloth, Library style, $1.75. 

BRAGELONNE, THE SON OF ATHOS, or TEN YEARS LATER 
The Sequel to " Twenty Years After." By Alexander Dumas. Translated by 
Thomas Williams, Esq. Being the " Third Book " of " The Three Guardsmen 
Series." Paper cover, 75 cents ; morocco cloth, Library style, $1.75. 

THE IRON MASK, or THE FEATS AND ADVENTURES OF 
RAOUL Dti ISRAUELONNE. The Sequel to " Bragelonne, the Son of 
Athos." By Al<\r<< inter Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq, 
Being the " Four! h Hook " of " The Three Guardsmen Series." Paper cove^ 
$1.00; morocco cloth, Library style, $1.75. 

LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE, The Sequel to and end of "The Iron Mask.'* 
Jiil Alexander Dumas. Translated by Thomas Williams, Esq. Being the 
"Fifth Book" and end of "The Three Guardsmen Series." Paper co^er, 
$1.00; morocco cloth, Library style, $1.75. 

p^rAI me five works are for sale by all Booksellers and News Aients , at all Nev* 
Stands everywhere, and on all Railroad Trains, or copies of an'j w-i, of all of thea^ 
wtil be 4<M te any one, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wantt', to the publisher^ 

T. B. PETERSONS BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, BhUadelphia, P* 



HELEN'S BABIES. 

■w-xTiEa: 

Some accounts of their ways innocent, crafty, angelic, impish, witching 

and repulsive. Also, a partial record of their actions 

during ten days of their existence. 

BY JOHN HABBERTON. 
With an illustrated Cover, with Portraits of Budge and Toddie. 



"Helen's Babies" is famous. It contains more merriment than any other book ex~ 
tant, and at the same ti?ne is wonderfully interesting. A masterpiece in every sense 
of the word, it awakens intense admiration while it produces hearty laughter. As a 
picture of child -life it is nature itself, and it could not well be otherwise, for John Hab~ 
berton, its author, made his own children sit for the portraits of Btidge and Toddie y 
the refreshingly droll little heroes. The tone of the charming volume is healthful and 
vigorous, while all the incidejtts are bright and telling. Budge and Toddie, " the best 
children in the world" are mischief incarnate. They are consigned to the care of their 
Uncle Harry while their parents spend a fortnight with a friend, and at once the fun 
begins. The boys demand stories, ancf, zuhen their uncle favors them with a biblical 
narrative, they correct him and tell him he doesn't know anything about Jonah and 
Noah and the Ark. Toddie is fearfully persistent, and, when denied anything, has a 
way of blasting into such a storm of tears thai his wish is instantly granted. He want* 
" to shee the wheels of his uncle's watch go wound" and has a terrible craving for candy t 
while he echoes all his brother's words, and is always getting into some difficulty or 
other. Budge is inquisitive and perplexing. He interprets 7 oddie'' s picture sqtie baby 
talk, and is ever ready for a frolic. The children cause their uncle no e?id of worri- 
ment. Btidge has a goat and a carriage to which the animal is harnessed, 
In this vehicle he ??ieets with frequent mishaps. 1 he boys will bes?near their gar* 
ments with ?nud, and their adventurous dispositions occasionally lead them info 
danger. To amuse them and keep them in order, their uncle sings them camp-meeting 
kytnns and impersonates in turn bears, lions, zebras, elephants, dogs and cats. Toddie 
has a favorite song, which he invai'iably demands when he gets hurt, and which exer* 
cises a peculiarly soothing influence upon him. But though veritable imps, the boys an 
charming little fellows, and it is utterly impossible not to love them. They are devoui 
after their own peculiar fashion, and insist upon saying prayers, some of which are in- 
describably comical. Altogether, "Helen's Babies" is one of the most captivating sto- 
ries in existence, the courtship of Uncle Harry and Miss May ton lending it variety and 
romance. A r o one can fail to be delighted with it, whether married or single, old or 
young, and all who read it will certainly enjoy a series of hearty laughs. Budge and 
Toddie are capital creations and excellent types of American boyhood. They will 
remain in the memory forever, for "Helen's Babies" can never be forgotten. 



Paper Cover, 50 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.00. 



* "Helen's Babies" will be found for sale by all Booksellers and Niews Agents^ 
on all Railroad Trains, and at all A r ews Stands, or copies if it will be sent to any one % 
to any place, at once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting the price to the publishers, 

T, B, PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 



Mrs. Burnett's Novelettes, 

COMPLETE EDITIONS, JUST PUBLISHED BY 

T, B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA, 

AND FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS AND NEWS AGENTS. 
Price 50 cents each in paper cover, or $1.00 each in cloth, black and gold. 

Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett is one of the most charming among American writers. Tkere is a 
crisp and breezy freshness about her delightful novelettes that is rarely found in contemporaneous fio 
tion, ?nd a close adherence to nature, as well, that renders them doubly delicious. Of all Mrs. Bur- 
nett's romances and shorter stories those which first attracted public attention to her wonderful gifts 
are still her best. She has done more mature work, but never anything half so pleasing and enjoyable. 
These masterpieces of Mrs. Burnett's genius are all love stories of the brightest, happiest and most enter- 
taining description ; lively, cheerful love stories in which the shadow cast is infinitesimally small com- 
pared with the stretch of sunlight; anil the interest is always maintained at full head without apparent 
effort and without resorting to the conventional and hackneyed devices of most novelists, devices that 
the experienced render sees through at once. No more sprightly novel than " Theo " could be desired, 
and a sweeter or more beautiful romance than " Kathleen " does not exist in print, while " Pretty 
Polly Pemberton " possesses besides its sprightliness a special interest peculiar to itself, and "Miss 
Crespigny " would do honor to the pen of any novelist, no matter how celebrated. "Lindsay's 
Luck," "A Quiet Life," " The Tide on the Moaning Bar" and " Jarl's Daughter" are all worthy 
members of the same collection of Mrs. Burnett's earlier, most original, best and freshest romances. 
Everybody should read these exceptionally bright, clever and fascinating novelettes, for they occupy a 
niche by themselves in the world's literature and are decidedly the most agreeable, charming and 
interesting books that can be found anywhere. 



KATHLEEN. A Charming Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett^ 
author of " Theo,' 7 " Miss Crespigny," " Quiet Life," " Pretty Polly Pemberton." 

•* THEO." A Sprightly Love Story. By Mrs. Fraiices Hodgson Burnett, author 
of " Kathleen," "A Quiet Life," " Miss Crespigny," " Pretty Polly Pemberton." 

PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON. A Charming Love Story. By Mrs. 
Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of " Theo," " Kathleen," "A Quiet Life," etc. 

MISS CRESPIGNY. A Powerful Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson 
Burnett, author of " Theo," " Kathleen," " Pretty Polly Pemberton," etc. 

LINDSAY'S LUCK. A Fascinating Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson 
Burnett, author of " Theo," " Kathleen," "A Quiet Life," " Miss Crespigny." 

A QUIET LIFE; and THE TIDE ON THE MOANING BAR. 

Tender and Pathetic Stories. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. 

JARL'S DAUGHTER; and OTHER NOVELETTES. By Mrs. 

Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of " Theo," " Kathleen," etc. 

Above are 50 cents each in paper cover, or $1.00 each in cloth, black and gold* 



1P&5* Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, at all Neivs Stanas, at ah 
Railroad Stations, and by the Neivsboys on all Railroad Trains everywhere, or <opie: 
of any one or all of them, will be sent to any one, to any place, at once, per mail 
foU-paia, on remitting price of the ones wished to the Publishers, 

T. 15. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 



Petersons* 75 Cent Series. 

Books "by the Best Authors in the World, Published by 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA 

And for sale by all Bcoksellers and News Agents everywhere^ 

ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. By Mrs. E. D. E.N. Southworth. 
SELF-RAISED; cr, FROM THE DEPTHS. By Mrs. Southworth. 
THE FLOWER and MARKET GIRLS OF PARIS. By Emile Zola. 
CONSUELO. By George Sand. The Oreatast Work in the English Language 
THE BRIDE OF AN EVENING, By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 
THE INITIALS. "A. Z." By the Baroness Tautphoeus. 
MEMOIRS OF VIDOCQ, the French Detective. With Illustrations. 
MAJOR JONES'S COURTSHIP. With 21 Illustrations. By Maj. Jones. 
MAJOR JONES'S TRAVELS. Full of Illustrations. 
MAJOR JONES'S GEORGIA SCENES. Full of Illustrations, 
SIMON SUGGS' ADVENTURES. Illustrated by Barley. 
THE LOUISIANA SWAMP DOCTOR. Illustrated by Darley. 
THOSE PRETTY ST. GEORGE GIRLS. A New Society Novel. 
COUNTESS OF RUDOLSTADT. Sequel to "Consuelo." By George Sand. 
EDMOND DANTES. Sequel to Alex. Dumas " Count of Monte-Cristo." 
THE WIFE OF MONTE-CRISTO. Continuation of "Count Monte-Crist©." 
THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO. Sequel to "Wife of Monte-Cristo." 
MONTE-CRISTO'S DAUGHTER. Sequel to "Edmond Dantes." 
POT-BOUILLE; or, PIPING HOT. One of Emile Zola's Best Books. 
MHLDRED'S CADET. Hearts and Bell-Buttons. A Love Story of West Point. 
MADAME BOVARY. By Gustave Flaubert. His Great Suppressed Book. 
THE EXILES. A Russian Story. By Victor Tissot and Constant Amero. 
THE WOMAN IN BLACK. A Powerful Society Novel. 
MONSIEUR, MADAME and the BABY. With Illustrated Cover. 
WHICH? or, BETWEEN TWO WOMEN. By Ernest Daiulet. 
A SPECULATOR IN PETTICOATS. By Hector Malot. His Great Book. 
THE THREE GUARDSMEN. Alexander Dumas' Great Book. 
TWENTY YEARS AFTER. Sequel to "The Three Guardsmen." 
BRAGELONNE, The Son of Athos. Sequel to "Twenty Years After.* 

fg*^** Booksellers and News Aqents will he supplied with any or all of the abort 
books at very low rat™, assorted, at. they may wish them, to make vp a dozen, him* 
i?ed, or five hundred, hy the publishers, T. B. Peterson <£ Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 

Copies will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers, 
T. B PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa* 



LIST OF THE BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED. 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS publish all the best and most popular 
as well as the most economical Cook Books issued in the world. Every house- 
keeper should possess at least one of the following Cook Books, as they would 
save the price of it in a week's cooking. 

Miss Leslie's Cook Book. Being a Complete Manual to Domestic 
Cookery in all its branches. This is Mits Leslie's Great and Popular Cook 
Book. One volume, bound. Price $1.50. 

The Young 1 Wife's Cook Book. With receipts of all the best dishes 
to be prepared for Breakfast, Dinner, and Tea, as well as a large number 
of entire New Receipts for Cooking and preparing everything in all different 
ways. It is bound in a large volume of seven hundred pages. Price $1.50. 

Petersons' New Cook Book; or, Useful and Practical Receipts for 
the Housewife and the Uninitiated. One volume, bound. Price $1.50. 

Mrs. Goodfellow's Cookery as it should be, A Manual for 
the Dining Room and Kitchen. One volume, bound. Price $1.50. 

The National Cook Book. By the author of " Familiar Science," 
and a Practical Housewife. One volume, bound. Price $1.60. 

Widdifield's Ifew Cook Book. Being Practical and Useful Re- 
ceipts for the Housewife. One volume, bound. Price $1.50. 

Mrs. Hale's New Cook Book. A Guide to Families in Town and 
Country. By Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. One volume, bound. Price $1.60. 

Miss Leslie's New Receipts for Cooking:. Containing over 
One Thousand Receipts. Complete in one volume, bound. Price $1.60. 

M rs. Hale's Receipts for the Million. Containing 4545 Receipts. 
By Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. One volume, 800 pages, strongly bound. Price $1.50. 

The Family Save- All. By author of the "National Cook Book." 
Complete in one large volume, bound in cloth. Price $1.50. 

Francatelli's Modern Cook. A Practical Guide to the Culinary 
Art in all its branches; comprising, in addition to English Cookery, the 
mi i8t approved and recherche systems of French, Italian, and German Cook- 
ery; adapted for the use of all FAMILIES, large or small, as well as for 
Hotels, Cooks, Restaurants, Cake Bakers, Clubs, and Boarding Houses — in 
fact in all pi ices wherever cooking is required, while at the same time every 
lady and every family, large or small, can save money by referring to its 
pages. By CHARLES ELME FRANC ATELLI, pupil to the celebrated 
Carkme, and Chief Cook to her Majesty, Victoria, Queen of England. With 
Sixty-Two Illustrations of various dishes. The whole of the above is com* 
prised in one large royal octavo volume of Six Hundred Pages, strongly 
bound, and forms the largest and most complete work on all kinds of Cook- 
ery, of various Dishes, and Bills of Fare for all days in the year, ever pub- 
lished. Complete in one large volume, bound in cloth, price Five Dollars. 

Every Cook should own a copy of Francatelli. 

Above Cook Books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any one, or all 
of the above celebrated Cook Books, will be sent to any one, to any place, post- 
age pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 



Peterson's Ulmmm. 

THE BEST OF THE LADY'S-BOOKS. 

PETERSON'S MAGAZINE is the best and cheapest 
of the Lady's-Books. It gives more for the money 
and combines greater merits than any other. Its immense 
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SON'S MAGAZINE. 

The stories, novelets, etc., in "Peterson," are admit- 
ted to be the best published. All the most popular female 
writers contribute to it. Every month a Full-Size Dress 
Pattern is given, which is alone worth the price of the 
number. Everv month, also, there appears a MAMMOTH 
COLORED FASHION PLATE ! engraved on steel twice 
the size of others, and superbly colored. Also, House- 
hold, Cookery, and other receipts ; articles on Art Em- 
broidery, Talks by a Trained Nurse, Flower Culture, House 
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TERMS.— Two Dollars a year. • 

ISP* Everything that a woman can wish for in a maga- 
zine is to be found in " Peterson, " and, in consequence, 
this Lady's-Book ought to be found in every household. 
Now is the time to subscribe. Terms : Two Dollars a year,, 
in advance. Try it for one year, or send it to a friend. 



»* PETERSON'S MAGAZINE is published by 

"The Peterson Magazine Company/' 

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can be 8 ent to T B Peterson & Brothers, 

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THE BEST SPEAKERS and READERS 

Published by T. B. PETERSON & BROS., Phila., Pa. 

COMSTOCK'S ELOCUTIOnTand MODEL SPEAKER. 

This new, enlarged, and revised edition of "Comstock's Elocution 
and Model Speaker," is the most complete work on this subject, in- 
tended for the use of Schools, Colleges, and for private study,' for the 
Promotion of Health, Vocal Gymnastics, Cure of Stammering, and 
Defective Articulation, ever published. It contains Exercises in Elo- 
cution, Vocal Gymnastics, Articulation, Pitch, Force, Time, Gesture, 
Reading, and Declamation, with Postures of the Body, Arms, Head, 
Face, Eyes, Shoulders, and the Lower Limbs; and is Illustrated with 
Two Hundred and Sixty-three Engravings of Figures in various Posi- 
tions, and Diagrams, illustrative of the whole subject. By Andrew 
Comstock, M. D. To which is added a Complete Speaker and Reading 
Book, of Gems from the Writings of the best Authors, in Prose and 
Verse, by Philip Lawrence, Professor of Elocution. Price, $2.00. 

THE LAWRENCE SPEAKER. 

BY PHILIP LAWRENCE. 

This work contains not only the finest productions of Authors 
known to Fame, both Prose and Poetry, but also a number of Anony- 
mous Pieces of the highest merit, as well as Practical Hints and 
Rules to be followed by all in the study of Elocution, as regards Articu- 
lation, Modulation, Emphasis and Delivery. Price, $2.00. 

COMSTOCK'S COLORED CHART. 

COMSTOCK'S COLORED CHART. Being a perfect alphabet of the 
English Language, Graphic and Typic, with Exercises in Articulation, 
Pitcb, Force and Gesture. It comprises, first, the Elementary Sounds 
of the English Language — second, Forty-four Colored Engravings, 
showing the best and only correct positions of the mouth in the ener- 
getic utterance of words — third, a Perfect Alphabet, graphic and typic 
—fourth, Exercises in Pitch, Force and Melody— fifth, Exercises in 
Gesture — sixth, Sixty-eight colored figures, representing the various 
postures and different attitudes to be used in declamation. The whole 
comprised on a large colored chart, measuring sixty-two by fifty-one 
inches, and mounted on muslin and on rollers. Price, Five Dollars. 

flgT* Every School and College in the United States should have a 
copy of " Comstock's Colored Chart" hanging on it walls, for the in- 
struction of its pupils, which will be sent by express on receipt of $4.00. 



THE LAWRENCE RECITER. 

THE LA WHENCE RECITER is a simple yet comprehensive sys- 
tem of ELOCUTION, consisting of exercises for the developing and 
cultivation of the VOICE, and grace and power of GESTURE. 
Rules for BREATHING, ARTICULATION, and MODULATION. 
BY EDWIN G^LAWRENCE, and PROF. P. LAWRENCE. 
Handsomely bound in Vellum and Rlack. Price, $1.00. 

Address T. Ii. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 

jQQjr* Copies of above books will be wati by mail on receipt of retail price.'WSy 



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